


hunting toward heartstill

by blackkat



Series: constantly stoneward [1]
Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, BAMF Mace Windu, Developing Relationship, Eventual Happy Ending, Fake Marriage, Fix-It, Force-Sensitive Clones (Star Wars), Force-Sensitive Fives, Force-Sensitive Tup, Friendship, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Prophets of the Dark Side, Zombies, clone culture, sith planets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:15:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 45
Words: 207,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22467715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: Plo has an idea. Mace agrees, and everything snowballs right into hell from there.(Or: Mace and Cody get married in order to give the clones citizen status. Before they can focus on that, though, they're going to have to deal with ancient Sith artifacts, evil prophets, plots to overthrow the Supreme Chancellor, lost planets, monsters warped by Sith alchemy, inconvenient feelings, and Darth Sidious turning his eye on a potential new apprentice. Just...not in that order.)
Relationships: Anakin Skywalker & Mace Windu, CC-2224 | Cody/Mace Windu, CT-27-5555 | Fives | ARC-5555 & Mace Windu, CT-5385 | Tup & Shaak Ti, Obi-Wan Kenobi/CT-7567 | Rex, Padmé Anidala/Anakin Skywalker/CC-1010 | Fox, Plo Koon & Mace Windu, Plo Koon/CC-3636 | Wolffe, Shaak Ti/Colt (Star Wars)
Series: constantly stoneward [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1659436
Comments: 2446
Kudos: 3889
Collections: Absolute Must Read Fics, Favorite Rereads, Jedi Journals, Jedi-Friendly, Mace Windu Rare Pairs, Star Wars Alternate Universes, TexWash's Must Reads and Rereads





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> We all knew I wouldn't be able to resist writing a Fake Marriage AU forever, and Star Wars is just _rife_ with excuses to do so. This will probably most definitely be a fix-it eventually. 
> 
> The title comes from "Out of Research Into Reveries" by Mai Der Vang, which is a Mace Poem in my head.

Mace, after so many years as Master of the Order, is entirely used to his door chime waking him up at unholy hours, sounding like someone’s decided to lean their full weight on it and stay that way. Habit more than any sort of desire to deal with people’s problems has him opening his eyes in the darkness, and he stares into the fabric of his pillow for a long, murderous second as the chime echoes through his rooms. It’s insistent. It’s _annoying_.

It would also be entirely too easy to just rip the whole system right out of his wall with a pertinent application of the Force and throw it at whoever is trying to wake him up.

Lamentably, reason reasserts itself before he can try, and Mace breathes out, rolls over, and gets to his feet. Puts a hand to his aching head with a grimace, because he’s slightly concussed and more than a little scorched in the aftermath of this last deployment, sore to his bones and less than willing to deal with whatever problem Yoda can't be bothered to see to right now, but—

But Mace is a Jedi, and he has a duty, and there are people depending on him, so he drags a hand over his face, grimaces deeply, and goes to answer the door.

Of all the people he expects to see in the hall, a slightly battered but vaguely manic Plo Koon, carrying a pile of datapads and reams of flimsiplast, with the near-vibrating edge that comes from too many stimulants and far too little sleep, is not among them.

It takes a moment for his brain to adjust to the fact that it isn't Anakin or Obi-Wan or Quinlan standing there, while Plo politely vibrates in place and gives him time. Then, finally, Mace shakes his head, squints at Plo, and says, “It’s the middle of the damned night, Master Koon.”

“I,” Plo says, “had an idea, and it requires your assistance.”

Mace rubs his eyes, takes another look at the datapads. Legal tomes. Case histories and precedents in the justice system. At least one particularly unwieldy pad with obscure Order rules that it once took Mace six years to work his way through because he kept falling asleep before he reached the end of the page, never mind the chapter.

“I need caf for this,” he says grimly, but opens his door all the way and lets Plo in. “And _you_ need to sleep. When did you get back from the front?”

“Twenty-nine hours ago.” Plo breezes into his room and promptly takes over his coffee table, piling it high with documents. “As we were on our way to Coruscant for leave, I had something of a revelation, and decided to look into it.”

Mace sets the brewer up, then pours himself a cup. Swallows it, black and burning hot, and takes another that he allows himself to add sweetener to, before he finally makes his way back out to Plo's miniature library. “I'm surprised,” he says, awake enough now that there’s a dry edge to it. “Your Wolfpack let you out unsupervised when you were in the midst of an _idea_?”

Plo is entirely unruffled by the implication. “Commander Wolffe and his men were very tired,” he says solicitously. “I saw them to their barracks and left them to rest.”

Mace grunts, unimpressed, but picks up the closest pad. It’s a sentient rights court case from a few years ago, regarding an issue the Jedi originally brought to the attention of the Senate and which several rights activist groups had proceeded to take up. Discrimination based on systems of birth that was later outlawed, if Mace remembers correctly.

With an inkling of where this is headed, Mace lowers the pad and raises a deliberate brow at Plo.

“There have been _seven_ proposed votes to recognize the clones as citizens of the Republic,” Plo says, with the calm assurance that makes him such a good Master, paired with a thread of the steely determination that makes him a good council member. “Every one of them has been dismissed before it can be taken up. At this point, I think it is safe to say that the Senate is not going to address the issue of the clone armies currently fighting for their safety.”

Mace has noticed the same thing. All of the senators are distracted by the war, with only a handful paying attention to the clones themselves beyond the logistical factors of their existence. Even Senator Amidala, forever a fighter, has more of her attention on the war than those waging it.

The Jedi don’t get that sort of distance. They, like the clones, are fighting and dying on the front lines in numbers not seen since their last war with the Sith.

“So I've been told,” Mace says, quietly sardonic, and sets the pad down. He considers Plo for a long moment, unsurprised that this is his focus, even with everything else that’s happened. Plo cares about his troopers openly and with _teeth_ , in a way he doesn’t normally allow to show. Mace would caution him about attachment, but—

Well. The clones need someone to fight for them, and Plo is both a capable man and a wise Jedi.

Besides that, Plo's proven many times that his love doesn’t have the greedy edge of attachment, and Mace is content to let him be. Especially if it results in potential solutions to the problem of the clones.

“I think,” Plo says, deliberate more than cautious, “that the chancellor had made his position clear at this point.”

Mace steeples his fingers, regarding Plo over the top of them. “Yes,” he agrees gravely. “ _If_ he takes up the matter, it will be well after the war.”

Plo's exhale is quiet, even through the mask. “Yes,” he agrees. “With that in mind, I was…looking. Considering options. Master Nu has been assisting me in finding older loopholes in the legal code.” Shifting through the stack of pads, he comes up with one, bearing a cover holo that Mace recognizes.

For a long moment, he stares at the charter between the Jedi Order and the Galactic Republic. Then, with a deep grimace, he picks up his caf and tosses the whole cup back at once.

“Really, Mace,” Plo says, but Mace can read amusement in the crinkle around his eyes. “There's no need for dramatics.”

“You're going to make me read the charter,” Mace says coolly. “At three in the morning. There's every need for dramatics.”

Plo doesn’t quite laugh at him outright, but the thought is certainly there in the way he steeples his hands. “Only sections of it,” he promises, as if that’s any better. “I think I've identified all the pertinent passages, as it stands.”

Mace almost doesn’t want to ask. But—

The clone troopers are dying for the Republic, trying to hold back the tide of the Separatists and Dooku. Mace saves as many as he can, fights harder than he ever has before so that even one more clone can survive, but it’s not enough. The armies are well-supplied and well-staffed, but the clones have no rights, no say in whether or not they die. Anger is Mace's constant companion these days, bone-deep and desperate, because he sees it all too well. The Jedi serve the Senate, were always going to be pressed into service here, but the clones are slaves. A slave army, in a Republic that’s been turning a blind eye to such things for far too long.

“Pertinent to what, exactly?” he asks, raising a brow, and Plo laughs lightly, as if that’s going to hide the fact that the sound is all sharp edges.

“It is a tricky legal situation, employing clones,” Plo says, and shifts his stacks of references. In a moment, he has the table mostly clear, and starts laying out datapads with quick hands. “There were three relevant court cases when it first was seeing a resurgence, before the Republic started to regulate it more tightly, and they established that clones were sentient—”

“More so,” Mace says dryly, taking the case summary, “than the regulators in many cases.”

Plo's humor is a bright-flicker thing, one quick moment before he tamps it down again. “Really, Mace,” he says, aiming for disapproving, but Mace can read him too well to think he means it.

Mace raises a challenging brow at him, silently daring him to disagree.

Notably, Plo doesn’t even try. He leans over, a careful claw flipping through pages on Mace's pad until he gets to the appropriate ruling. “They established that clones were sentients, and that they were entitled to proper care like any sentient,” he says. “There was also a case of a ruler on a Mid-Rim planet marrying off clones of himself to secure political alliances, and a high court ruled those marriages valid.”

“Marriages,” Mace echoes, eyes narrowing. He looks up at Plo again, wary, and sets the pad down with deliberate care. “That case is considered to have been _heavily_ influenced, Plo. The judge retired less than a year later, with more credits than any public servant should have had.”

“But it hasn’t been overturned.” Plo's eyes crinkle. “And given certain old tenants from when the Republic was still forming, there are rules in place that allow the Jedi to take on spouses from species not yet accepted into the Republic.”

Mace has read those parts of the charter. It was well before the Code was as firm as it is now, back before several overhauls of the rules, but—it’s a section of law that’s managed to stay intact. A loophole, really, because while it was meant to extend Republic protections to Jedi spouses back when marriage was more common for Jedi, it was also used for political purposes more than once. Used for marrying planetary rulers, and by extension bringing their whole planets into the Republic when the Senate couldn’t take such actions.

It’s been centuries since it was used in any fashion, long enough that most people have likely forgotten it even exists. But Jocasta Nu wouldn’t have. She and Mace had a debate over the appropriateness of it once, and Mace is more than willing to bet she steered Plo right towards it.

“The Code frowns upon marriages for active Jedi,” Mace says, more to see Plo's response than because he thinks it’s a solid objection. “And the clone troopers don’t have a single leader.”

Plo's expression takes on a wry slant. “Many, _many_ Jedi enter relationships, regardless of the Code,” he says. “Many more maintain those relationships over the years of their service. The Code may technically frown upon it, but it is a common thing.” A pause, and he meets Mace's gaze, steady and braced. “And, perhaps, given the changing nature of the galaxy, there is room for…adjustment. To suit a new way of existence for the Jedi.”

Mace grimaces, but—Plo has a point, and he’s known it since the war started. The Jedi turned from peacekeepers to soldiers for the Republic, and even if they _can_ go back to their former role when the war ends, there will be precedent. The Jedi obeyed when they were appointed generals, and even if the safety of millions was weighting their agreement, they could, technically, have refused.

No Jedi would have, not when the point of their existence is to preserve life, but—the choice, however slanted towards one outcome, was still there.

In light of that, Mace knows the Jedi Order as a whole will emerge from the war changed. Knows, too, that the members of their Order will have been changed as well, and that if the Code remains rigid and unyielding, the Jedi will break themselves against it. The Code is meant to guide, protecting both the Jedi and those they serve, but if the entirety of the Order has shifted, twisted, the Code will need to change subtly to accommodate that.

“There will be resistance,” he warns Plo, and rises to retrieve the whole pot of caf. “Older members—”

“Enough Jedi have died,” Plo says, quiet, _gutting_ , “that there are few remaining who have the clout to kick up a fuss.”

Carefully, Mace sets the pot down on the table, then leans forward and rubs his hands over his face. Remembers, with a twisted jolt behind his ribcage, the last pyre he attended. Ima-Gun Di was a friend from the creche, several years younger but quick and brave and clever, always steadfast. His sacrifice likely helped save all of Ryloth, but—

There’s been too much death in this war. It’s gone on too long. Mace could have stopped it, once, but an old friendship made him pull his blow, turn on Jango Fett instead of Dooku, and there isn't a day that’s passed since Geonosis where Mace hasn’t regretted his decision with every fiber of his being.

“You forget,” he says without looking up, “that I stepped down as Master of the Order. Yoda took the position at the start of the war, so I could serve on the front.”

Plo hums. “Yes,” he agrees serenely. “But should you take the position back, I do not think anyone would object. Master Yoda is very much of the old guard, wouldn’t you say? And if the Order is changing around us, perhaps it would be better to have a…new guard, so to speak.” A pause, and Plo taps his claws together thoughtfully. “There is also no rule that I am aware of that prohibits the Master of the Order from taking missions, just notions of decorum stemming from the Order’s attempts to remain neutral in conflicts.”

Which, of course, is far less of an issue right now. Mace breathes out, considering the angles, and—the hardest thing will likely be resuming his position without making Yoda suspicious. It’s wrong of him to wish for Yoda to get injured in battle, but—well. It would certainly make things easier.

“This doesn’t change the fact that there’s no one leader of the clone army,” he says, sidestepping the issue for now.

“No,” Plo agrees easily, and leans forward, shuffling through flimsi for a moment before he comes up with a few sheets copied from truly ancient texts. “And a Jedi marrying one of the Republic soldiers wouldn’t have quite the same influence, I'm afraid. However, Jedi married leaders in order to make the transition smoother, not because it was required. And, with the clones, there is the added advantage of them technically being the same person, genetically.”

Marrying Jango would have likely accomplished the same thing, if that’s the angle Plo is going for. Mace grimaces, momentarily _deeply_ grateful that that isn't an option, and says warningly, “If you try to use that line of reasoning, it will most certainly be challenged in the courts.”

Plo smiles benignly. “Ah, but Jedi serve in such a capacity that they operate without direct oversight, except from the Order itself. If the Master of the Order is the one making the argument, there's very little the courts can do.”

Mace blinks. Sits back, careful, and wonders why the hell he wasn’t expecting this. It’s logical, given how Plo brought the issue to him, but—he’d been expecting that was simply so he could help smooth the way. Not so that _he_ could be the one getting married.

“ _Me_?” he asks, raising an incredulous brow. “Plo, if the Senate is going to believe a Jedi breaking the Code and marrying for love, it needs to be someone else.”

The tilt of Plo's chin is all stubbornness, rock-solid and as deep as Coruscant’s lowest levels. “If it isn't you, there could be a challenge from other members of the Order,” he says. “Mace, this needs to be impervious from our end. You are the best option.”

“No one will believe I would do this for love,” Mace says, unflinching. “Or _anything_ out of sentiment alone.”

“Then they do not know you, my friend,” Plo answers, gentle, and meets Mace's glare with a level gaze. “Mace. You are one of the kindest men I have ever met.”

Mace snorts, because that is most _certainly_ a lie. Unfortunately, it’s harder to disprove Plo's other point, and Mace stares down at the charter without seeing it for a long moment, debating. The Council as an entity is changeable and easily influenced by sentiments in the Order. The Master of the Order is a more solid position, more rigid. Less easily controlled by the chancellor, which Mace assumes is half the point of this.

“It is,” he allows at last, “a potential route to citizenship. But the Jedi have kept their use of it for political purposes quiet, and if it’s assumed that our only motive is to bring the clones into the Republic as citizens, there will be…objections.” To put it mildly.

“Then everyone had best assume it is a love match,” Plo says serenely, and ignores Mace's look. “I had thought, once the marriage is established, an enterprising senator—or perhaps a lawyer—could _uncover_ this particular clause and make it public. That way, the Jedi remain almost entirely above suspicion. After all, these documents are very old.” His eyes crinkle noticeably. “What are the odds that even the Master of the Order has read the whole of them?”

“Good, if they know anything about me,” Mace says, maybe a little sourly. He doesn’t press the point, though, because most Jedi wouldn’t be digging that deep into the Archives, even other council members. Only Master Nu, and she’s expected to know such things. The marriage clause has only been used a handful of times, and of those only a few were for political reasons, carefully disguised. It’s a boon for the Jedi Order to have such a thing in reserve, for situations where their hands are otherwise tied. Situations just like this, honestly.

“One of the clones will have to agree,” he says after a long moment, and glances up at Plo. “Preferably a high-ranking clone, as well.” He thinks of Ponds for a moment, but—while that might be more believable, given their service together, there’s also the matter of abuse of authority if he asks it of Ponds, and Mace refuses to put Ponds in such a situation.

This, at least, makes Plo hesitate, and he folds his hands in front of him, head tilting. “Yes,” he agrees more solemnly. Hesitates, and says, “I had thought to propose Wolffe, at first.”

Because Plo isn't one to play favorites, but if he _were_ , his commander would be his favorite without question. Mace smiles a little, because he’s met Wolffe enough times to know him decently well, and the sharp-tongued, eternally aggrieved clone is a strange contrast to Plo's easygoing humor, but they make for an amusing and strangely devoted pair.

“I think,” he says after a moment of contemplation, “that Commander Wolffe is a good man, but I wouldn’t ask him to play one half of a love match. Not with me.” Because Mace knows himself, and this is going to be the hardest part of the whole thing, selling that.

“Yes,” Plo allows after a moment, and there’s wry humor in his voice. “The two of you are too similar in that regard, I think. And beyond that, it would be good to have the other part of this be a clone with a decent amount of visibility to the civilian population of the Republic. A clone who has been known to serve with you occasionally, who is rather more approachable than Wolffe, and who is…more accustomed to the use of unorthodox tactics in achieving a goal.”

Mace pauses, narrowing his eyes at Plo. Given that tone, given that description, there’s only one high-ranking clone who comes to mind.

“Obi-Wan will have me killed,” he says flatly. “He will smile at my face in the council room and hire an assassin who will shoot me from a distance ten minutes later. You _know_ you're signing my death warrant by even _implying_ we include Commander Cody in this charade.”

Plo is _absolutely_ laughing at him. “Obi-Wan will most certainly not, especially if your marriage results in Cody's freedom. Don’t be dramatic, Mace.”

“A widower can still claim freedom through the clause,” Mace says sourly, but leans back in the sofa, cradling his next cup of caf. Considers, for a long moment, whether he’s truly willing to do this, but—

Mace has broken slaver rings before. This is the same thing. It’s just that this time, the slaver is the Republic Mace swore himself to, and the method is political maneuvering rather than a lightsaber judiciously applied to delicate areas.

Taking a deep breath, he closes his eyes for a long moment, resigning himself to madness. Opens them, and meets Plo's gaze steadily.

“The 212th will be returning to Coruscant tomorrow, to assist in the planning of the next offensive,” he says. “They technically have leave starting then. Is there a way Wolffe can get Cody into the temple without raising any suspicions?”

Plo is smiling behind his mask. “I’m sure he can come up with something,” he says. Pauses, watching Mace for a long moment, and then says quietly, “Thank you, Mace. I know that in the grand scheme of the war, this is a blow to the army, but…”

“Necessary,” Mace finishes for him, and smiles a little crookedly. “We allowed ourselves to be put in charge of slave armies. It’s our duty to correct the injustice, now that we have a way.” He tips his cup at Plo. “I wouldn’t have remembered the existence of the clause without you reminding me.”

“It’s quite obscure,” Plo says ruefully. “Master Nu didn’t even recall it until several hours into our research. And…” He hesitates, then tips his head at Mace. “I was unsure whether you were going to be willing. Master Yoda certainly wouldn’t have been.”

“Master Yoda has great faith in the Jedi Order,” Mace says. It’s not entirely a compliment. “But the Darkness keeps growing, and I know how thin the line separating us from it can be. At one point the scales will tip, and if we wish to tip them back, something will have to change.”

Plo inclines his head, slow, thoughtful. “A progressive take, compared to some,” he points out, and Mace refuses to respond. The simple fact that he was elected as Master of the Order was progressive enough, given his closeness to the Dark Side, and Mace has gone out of his way not to ruffle any feathers in the years since. This will ruffle quite a few, but…hopefully in the right ways.

With a quiet chuckle, Plo lets him be, tugging a few more datapads out to line them up in front of Mace. “I took the liberty of identifying precedents that will bolster our case,” he says. “Of course, you have a more comprehensive knowledge of the Order’s history than I, so I was hoping you could assist in this part as well. Once the marriage is established and the knowledge of the clause is made public, we will need our arguments to be as seamless as possible.”

Mace sighs into his caf, but picks up the copy of the charter. “It would be best to focus our arguments on the Order’s separation from the Senate on internal matters,” he says, flipping through to a half-remember section that might apply. “Our independence from oversight is a grey area, given our service, but there might be enough room there to make a point about personal lives and freedoms existing outside of duties, regardless of our occupation. And to ensure that the citizenship the marriage grants is honored, an argument of sentient rights not depending on reproduction.”

Plo makes a thoughtful sound, reaching for another document. “Possibly undercut by our points regarding the rights’ extension to all the clones, simply because of your marriage to one,” he points out. “If an argument of individuality is made—”

“Counter it with a blood relation argument,” Mace says dismissively. “The clones are Mandalorian by adoption and training, and Mandalorian views of relation are fluid. Since the clones already refer to each other as brothers and consider themselves descendants of one Mandalorian, that should cover far more bases than the same genome argument.”

“Ah,” Plo says, chuckling. “I knew you would be very helpful in this, Mace.”

Mace rolls his eyes, unconvinced that this isn't at least half just in the name of torturing him. “ _You_ will have to pay for my funeral when Obi-Wan murders me,” he informs Plo.

Plo laughs, as if Mace isn't being perfectly serious. “How about I pay for your wedding instead?” he counters.

The only weddings Mace has ever attended have been for high-profile political figures, rulers and senators and ambassadors married with pomp, and he’s absolutely sure it’s the same for Plo. Raising a brow, he glances up, and asks dryly, “Do you even know what comprises a normal wedding?”

“I'm sure I can figure it out,” Plo says, unbothered. “On the topic of releasing the information eventually, we’ll have to distribute it to several sources.”

“Preferably not just news networks,” Mace agrees with a frown, and reaches for his personal datapad, opening it to take notes. “There are several groups advocating for clone rights—it would be entirely reasonable for them to dig up such a thing and share it among themselves.” He pauses, and then says, “Perhaps we can…misdirect. Political upheaval would be a decent motive for Separative intelligence to dig up such a thing and release it. And if it looks like an attack aimed at disrupting political systems, it could have the added benefit of uniting factions to face the threat.”

Plo pauses, surprise clear, and then laughs. “Ah,” he says, eyes crinkling. “This, precisely, is why I came to you first, my friend. That seems like a perfectly feasible idea.”

“Hmm.” Mace taps his fingers against the edge of his pad. There’s even a perfect way to go about it. Quinlan is poised to be able to hand the information right to Dooku, who will be more than happy to use it against the Republic in a psychological attack aimed at destabilizing the GAR. If Mace can get the info to him, it will be easy enough to simply sit back and let things unfold. Dooku is cunning; he’ll know precisely how to make things work.

Of course, now they just have to make sure Cody will agree.

With a deep grimace, Mace closes his eyes. He knows Anakin's opinion of him, and that Obi-Wan sometimes shares it. Knows, too, how closely Cody works with both of them. _If_ Cody agrees—and there’s every chance he’ll simply laugh in Mace's face when he makes the offer—this still isn't going to be easy. For his part, Mace likes Cody, admires his ability as a soldier and a babysitter for Obi-Wan, because Force knows that’s a job Mace wouldn’t wish on anyone. But—

Mace has an established reputation as a wise bastard, and it’s not one he’s ever tried to contest. Cody might be entirely unwilling to subject himself to that.

Well. There’s always Wolffe as a fallback, or Captain Rex. Though if he asks Rex Mace will _truly_ have to worry about assassination attempts. Anakin isn't subtle.

With a sigh, Mace reaches for another pad, resigning himself to worrying about it tomorrow. For now, they need an airtight case as to why one marriage means all the clones should have Republic-granted rights, and that’s going to take more than a little doing.

The chime of the door draws Mace out of the kitchen, where he’s just setting up a third pot of caf, and he turns to get it, passing through the brightly lit room with quiet steps. When he palms the door open, it’s unsurprising to find Commander Wolffe on the other side of it, looking the closest Mace has ever seen him to frazzled.

“General,” Wolffe says, offering him a brusque salute. “Sorry to bother you, sir, but I was told General Koon—” He breaks off sharply as Mace gestures for quiet, then frowns in buried alarm. Raises a brow in clear question, and steps inside when Mace gestures to him.

“I was letting him sleep,” Mace murmurs, gesturing to the Kel Dor slumped over the arm of his couch. “If you would stay and watch him, Commander, I have a council meeting I'm expected at.”

Wolffe stares at Plo for a long moment, and there’s a thread of something soft in his usually stern expression, a touch of feeling buried deep that makes Mace absolutely sure that whatever Cody's response, Wolffe isn't an option for a sham of a marriage, no matter what. Not unless the one he’s marrying is Plo. “I—of course, sir,” he says gruffly, and then pauses. “Sir, if it’s a council meeting…”

“I’ll make his excuses,” Mace says, securing his sash and calling his lightsaber across the room with a gesture. “There’s fresh caf in the kitchen. Help yourself.”

Wolffe’s eyes flicker from Plo to Mace, and he pauses. Wants to ask something, Mace can see, but he doesn’t. All he does is nod, stepping back to set his helmet on the table by the door. “Thanks, sir,” he says, but his eyes go right back to Plo.

Mace inclines his head and leaves the room, letting the door slide shut behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

“The Jedi Temple?” Cody asks, startled. “With _you_?”

Wolffe rolls his eyes skyward in an expression of longsuffering patience that Cody does _not_ appreciate having directed at him. “There another temple you frequent on Coruscant?”

“I don’t frequent the Jedi Temple, either,” Cody retorts, maybe a little more bristly than he should be, but Wolffe’s just got one of those charming personalities. “Didn’t think you did, either, vod.”

Wolffe grimaces faintly. “General Koon has a tendency to get stuck in Council meetings,” he says. “Or the Archives.”

And Wolffe’s had to go and get him, Cody thinks, amused at the image of Wolffe in full armor stalking around asking Jedi younglings for directions. “Commander Tano and General Skywalker usually keep General Kenobi out of trouble like that,” he says, voice pitched to carry. “Good thing, too, or he’d never leave the temple.”

“I can _hear_ you,” Obi-Wan calls back, perfectly poised, from across the room. He’s ostensibly teaching Rex how to meditate, but so far the only lesson Cody's gotten via eavesdropping is in how many surreptitious glances two oblivious idiots can fit into one conversation.

“Hear what, sir?” Cody asks innocently. “Is something wrong, General?”

Obi-Wan opens one eye to give him a look that translates to roughly _I am disappointed in every life choice you have ever made and potentially those your children will make_. It would have a hell of a lot more clout if Cody hadn’t gotten it last time when he caught Obi-Wan shuffling his way out of the medical bay, holding an intent conversation with his left hand.

Sleep deprivation and hallucinogens apparently aren’t a great mix, Cody picked up from that. Not hat _he’s_ about to test it. He has his Jedi to make bad decisions for him.

There is also, of course, no answer forthcoming. Obi-Wan sneaks one more look at Rex in his loose sweats, closes his eyes, and goes back to meditating. He’s just in time to miss the way Rex opens an eye to look at his face, and Cody rolls his own eyes so hard they _hurt_ and decides that even letting Wolffe drag him around the Jedi Temple will be far superior to watching this slow-motion freighter wreck of a courtship.

“Now?” he asks Wolffe, who nods shortly.

“Someone I want you to meet,” he says, jerking his head towards the door, and with a touch of bemusement Cody takes the hint, getting to his feet and pushing his chair back in. Debates, for a moment, whether or not he should take his armor, but the 212th is on leave and has been given strict orders to actually rest. Not that it seems to have made an impression on Wolffe, even though Cody _knows_ the Wolfpack got the same orders.

“What, you run into a pretty droid in the refectory?” he asks, even as he follows Wolffe out. “General Koon pick up a new youngling wandering around the last planet you were deployed on?”

It might be Cody's imagination, but he’s pretty sure Wolffe mutters _I wish_. He doesn’t respond to Cody's raised eyebrow, though, just heads for the speeder parked on the landing pad. There’s a Jedi Order insignia on the side, and Cody has no idea when Wolffe got in good enough with the Order to just start borrowing their vehicles, but he starts it with an air of familiarity as Cody settles in.

“Taking me somewhere secret?” he asks pointedly, but Wolffe just gives him a look like his intelligence is lacking and sweeps them out into traffic. There’s a little jostling, one distinct bump, an angry shout, and Cody winces and grabs onto the edge of the speeder, keeping his eyes fixed forward. Converted barracks for the GAR are at the very edge of the Federal District, and even from here Cody can see the five spires crowning the temple, the steady hum of light traffic around it.

“I'm pretty sure the Jedi don’t just let people in unless they're taking vows,” he says, watching Wolffe for a response.

All he gets is a faint roll of Wolffe’s eyes, though. “I have a pass,” he says, unimpressed, and instead of heading for the wide Processional Way and the main entrance—the only way Cody's ever entered the temple, on the occasions when he’s needed to brief the High Council or find Obi-Wan in an emergency—he cuts towards the northeastern corner, then up past the wide, slanting body of the temple itself. There’s a landing pad for ground vehicles a little over halfway up, and Wolffe sets the speeder down there, then swings out, nodding to a female Mon Calamari in Jedi robes. She nods back, ushering her group of pre-teen initiates towards a mechanics area near the far corner of the pad, and Cody offers the younglings a wave. Several wave back, apparently delighted to do so, and Cody can't help but grin as the Jedi Master shakes her head and laughs, shooing her charges forward.

“Commander Tano’s only a few years older,” Wolffe observes quietly, and the flicker of warmth in Cody's chest dies a sharp, cold death. Kriff. Wolf’s right, and—Cody's seen Ahsoka struggle with being a leader, but…it’s hard to connect her, serious and deadly and clever, to these little kids.

If the war goes on long enough, they’ll probably get dragged into the fighting, too.

“You're in a cheerful mood today,” he tells Wolffe, maybe a touch sourly, as he follows him towards the doors into the temple proper.

There's a pause as Wolffe takes the criticism, digests it. Then a soft exhale, too quiet to be a sigh. Wolffe looks away, and part of that is to punch a code into the reader, but part of it isn't.

“Sorry,” he says curtly. “The last deployment went to shit.”

Since Wolffe’s on search and rescue, Cody doesn’t doubt he and his men get shoved into the worst situations and places on a sliver of hope they can get something not-tragic out of the aftermath. With a sympathetic grimace, he bumps his shoulder against Wolffe’s, where their pauldrons would normally be, and doesn’t say anything.

Some faint hint of tension eases out of Wolffe’s frame, and he doesn’t acknowledge the action, but it’s enough.

“Pass into the Jedi Temple, huh?” Cody asks instead, because there's a chance he’s something of an asshole. “I was joking about the pretty droid, but if you really did meet one, it’s my responsibility as your brother—”

Wolffe kicks him in the ankle, and without armored boots it hurts like a _motherfucker_. “Shut up,” he says over Cody's hiss. “General Plo authorized me.”

Cody _also_ serves a member of the High Council, but he’s not walking around with an invitation into the temple interior. Scowling at Wolffe’s back, he asks, “You really have to dig him out of the Archives that often?”

“Or the creche.” Wolffe’s long-suffering expression says everything.

Cody snorts, but takes a few quick steps to fall in beside him. The halls are more than wide enough, long and tall and sweeping, full of wide windows. There's a hush to everything, but it’s a warm kind of hush, settled, easy. Cody doesn’t feel like he’s breaking rules just by breathing, the way he has in some places. There are Jedi here, too, a handful in the halls, with more in the training salles they pass, more in the gardens Wolffe leads him around. It’s all…quiet. Peaceful.

It’s a reminder that the Jedi were peacekeepers, before the war. Monks, really, for all their abilities. Hard to remember, sometimes, that the Jedi are a religious order that just happens to serve the Republic, but—being here brings it into focus.

“Didn’t realize there were so many Jedi in residence,” Cody murmurs as they pass another knot of younglings, these ones hissing at each other as they go over bookwork. They don’t look up, but a Zabrak in Knight’s robes nods to them as she passes, most of her attention on the datapad in her hands.

“Main Temple,” Wolffe says shortly. “This is where they come for research, or to heal.” He turns, heading down another hall towards a lift just as a familiar Togruta approaches, and Shaak Ti smiles warmly at them.

“Commander Cody, Commander Wolffe,” she offers, bowing her head. “It’s a pleasure to see you looking well.”

Cody was trained well before General Ti started overseeing the Kamino facilities, but all he’s ever heard from shinies is how perfect she is, and how much she cares about every clone who passes through the training. More than one brother’s come out of Kamino with stars in his eyes over Shaak Ti, and from what he’s seen of her, Cody can't even blame them. He gives her a salute, and says, “General Ti.”

“Just Master, here,” Shaak says firmly, but kindly. “Titles like that have no place in the temple.” She steps into the lift with them, folding her hands in her sleeves as it starts to move, and smiles at Wolffe. “Come to retrieve Plo again? He was in the refectory this morning, I believe.”

“He actually ate?” Wolffe mutters, and Shaak hides a laugh behind her hand.

“He did,” she confirms. “Mostly. I believe he and Master Nu were debating something over breakfast.”

From Wolffe’s grimace, _debate_ is a polite word for it. Cody smothers a grin, because he knows the feeling of trying to ride herd on a Jedi, but at least Wolffe’s general doesn’t fling himself off balconies to fall headlong through Coruscanti traffic or flirt with Ventress while she’s trying to gut him, so in Cody's opinion he’s getting off easy.

“At least he slept,” Wolffe says, resigned, and Cody kind of wants to ask how Wolffe knows that, but it’s probably impolite in front of Shaak. He keeps his mouth shut with an effort, but Wolffe’s sideways glance says he knows Cody far too well, and hears the comment anyway.

“Back from Kamino for long, Gen—Master Ti?” Cody asks to distract him, and Shaak shakes her head with a faintly rueful expression.

“I came to deliver a report to the Council in person,” she says. “I’ll be returning to Kamino immediately. There are many things I need to ask Nala Se, and I'm afraid it’s better done directly, rather than over comm.”

That touch of steel in her voice is mildly alarming. Cody exchanges glances with Wolffe, who’s frowning more deeply, and asks, “Master Ti?”

Shaak just smiles. “It needn’t concern you or your brothers yet,” she says, and as the lift hums to a stop, she inclines her head to them. “May the Force keep you well, in battle and out of it, Commanders.”

“Stay safe, Master Ti,” Cody returns after a moment.

“Good luck,” Wolffe says, and Shaak looks at them both for a long moment, expression one Cody can't even begin to decipher. Then, finally, she curls her hands together and bows to them.

“The Jedi Order is better for your existence, Commanders,” she says gently, “though I wish it could have come about under other circumstances.” With a sweep of long skirts, she turns, heading down the hall. Halfway down, a brother in armor, _kama_ striped with red, falls in beside her, and she smiles at Colt, slowing slightly so that he can keep up. The commander tips his helmet towards her, then offers Wolffe and Cody a salute before he and the general disappear around a corner.

Silently, the lift doors slide closed, and Cody stares at them for a moment. That sounded like a problem with the Kaminoans, he thinks uneasily, and curls his hands behind his back, trying to breathe through the worry that flickers. Kamino is their homeworld, or something like it. Cody doesn’t have a lot of attachment to the Kaminoans themselves, but—the planet is where they were raised, and it’s where there are still hundreds of thousands of cadets in training. If something’s happened…

Shaak said _yet_ , and in Cody's experience that never bodes well.

“Never a quiet cycle,” Wolffe mutters, looking the furthest thing from pleased, and Cody huffs quietly in agreement.

“Universe wouldn’t want us to get bored,” he agrees sardonically, and Wolffe snorts.

It’s not all bad, though, Cody supposes. Shaak's words about being glad they exist were unexpected, but appreciated; it’s not a thing Cody has thought about much, how the Jedi see them, but—the clones were made for the Jedi. Knowing that the loyalty is returned is…well. _Nice_ doesn’t seem to be anywhere close to enough, but it’s the only word Cody can come up with.

He wastes a few long moments trying to imagine how things would go if the Republic wasn’t at war, if the Jedi didn’t need to lead whole battalions into battle. Maybe the clones could be guards, or accompany Jedi on their missions. Peacekeepers like the Jedi, and Cody's only ever known war, but—it has to end someday, and he wonders what will become of them then.

Not citizens. They're clones, and he’s seen the Senate discuss them. Tools, to be used, and it makes Cody angry if he thinks about it too long, but at the same time he can be…content. Somewhat. The war gives them other things to worry about, at the very least.

“Do I get to know where we’re going now?” he asks Wolffe dryly, and gets ignored. A moment later, the doors open again, and Wolffe steps out on a floor Cody's never visited before, the long, wide corridors branching out in graceful curves. There’s a balcony to the north, wide and covered in greenery and fountains, and Cody can see Jedi among the vegetables, calm and easy as they work. On the other side of the hall, doors stand closed, some with privacy lights on—personal quarters, Cody thinks in surprise. This must be a residential floor.

Wolffe seems to know where he’s going, too; his steps don’t so much as pause as he makes his way down the hall, then left through another. A set of steps at the end of the corridor lead up to another section, this one seemingly deserted. There’s only one door with a privacy light, indistinguishable from all the rest, but Wolffe stops in front of it and presses the chime.

A moment later, the door hisses open, and Cody blinks, startled. He’d expected Plo Koon, not the sudden appearance of General Windu, straight and stern in the doorway.

“Commander Wolffe,” Mace says formally. “Commander Cody. Thank you for joining us.” He steps back, letting them through, and Cody follows Wolffe inside with complete and utter bemusement. This isn't anything close to what he’d thought.

“Wolffe, there you are,” Plo says serenely, and waves a languid hand at his commander, gesturing for him to take a seat. “I had thought you might have gotten lost.”

Wolffe doesn’t look impressed, and he also doesn’t sit down, but chooses to stand next to his general instead, arms folded over his chest. “General Ti caught us in the lift,” he says. “Sorry, sir.”

“Don’t be,” Plo says, eyes crinkling. “Shaak is very fond of you and your brothers. The men are well? Resting?”

Shaak isn't the only one, Cody thinks, amused, and flicks a glance around the room. There’s a wide window, a few plants and a handful of decorations, but the quarters look otherwise identical to Obi-Wan’s. Austere, Cody thinks. They're not Plo's, because the Kel Dor Master has rooms with an atmosphere like his homeworld, so he can take his mask off in them. Mace's, then, most likely, though the only sign of it is Mace's lightsaber with its distinctive hilt lying on a table near the window.

“There’s food, if you’d like, Commander,” Mace says quietly, passing him for the small kitchen area. “And caf, though I’d advise you keep it away from Plo.”

Cody isn't Ponds, with his uncanny, nearly supernatural sense of when Mace is joking. Eyeing the general carefully, Cody decides that he probably is, and follows him into the kitchen, more for something to do than because he’s hungry. “Thank you, sir.” There's a flicker of something suspicious rising, a wariness he can't quite stop. Obi-Wan hadn’t known Wolffe was taking him to meet Generals Windu and Koon—he would have given Cody at least some kind of warning. Wolffe didn’t tell _anyone_ where they were going, not in any place they might have been overheard, and that reeks of far more caution than would seem necessary, particularly in the Jedi Temple.

Just to test the theory, Cody takes the cup Mace offers him and asks, “Is General Kenobi going to be joining us?”

Mace gives him a look he can't read, pouring a cup of tea that smells unnervingly like mud for himself. It pools green-grey in the cup, and Cody looks at it askance, but refrains from saying anything. Maybe weird teas are a Jedi tradition—Force knows Obi-Wan drinks enough of them.

“No,” Mace says after a long moment. “This is a discussion I had hoped to keep between the four of us. No one outside of this room is aware we’re meeting.”

Right. That’s what Cody was afraid of. He glances back at the sofa, studying Plo and Wolffe for a moment, then glances at Mace again. Ponds isn't here, he realizes belatedly, even though Cody _knows_ he’s on-planet right now. Whatever’s going on, Mace is keeping his own commander out of things, and that’s karking suspicious.

“A discussion about what, General?” he asks evenly. About Anakin, maybe? He’s always complained that Mace is out to get him on some level, but Cody's always thought that was about the same as him complaining about Obi-Wan, which he never really means.

“About you,” Plo says, folding is four-fingered hands in his lap. “And also about your brothers. Your future in the Republic, as well.” He looks serene, but there's a subtle tell in the straightness of his spine. Tension, Cody thinks, and flicks a glance at Wolffe. His brother doesn’t look like he’s any more clued into what’s going on than Cody is, though, and all he offers is a faint shrug.

“That’s a lot for one conversation,” Cody says after a moment. Picks through potential responses, and then adds carefully, “Seems like a conversation you could have with any clone commander, sir.”

“No titles,” Mace says quietly. “Not for this conversation. In this room, you are equal rank and have equal say, Cody. Wolffe as well. Regardless of your reaction, there won't be any consequences.”

Yeah, that’s not _nearly_ as comforting as it’s probably intended to be. Cody studies Mace for a long moment. Only Mace, since he’s not able to read Kel Dor features as well as human. And—Mace usually looks as serious as a heart attack, but right now there’s something almost wary in his expression, too. Cody isn't sure whether that makes him feel better or worse.

“Sounds like you're dragging me into a plot to overthrow the chancellor,” he says dryly, and sets his caf aside to fold his arms over his chest. “I'm going to go out on a limb and assume that’s not what’s happening.”

Mace makes a sound of quiet amusement, features lightening for just a moment. “No,” he says, equally dry. “That wasn’t on the agenda for today. We’ll have to schedule it in later.” He crosses out into the main room, leaning over the low, cluttered table there for a moment, and straightens up holding a datapad. “Cody, are you aware that the Senate has been rejecting proposed votes on citizenship for all of its clone soldiers?”

It takes a second for Cody to find his voice. “Yeah. It’s been on the ‘Net. A couple of times now.”

Mace inclines his head. “And did you know,” he says quietly, “that in previous generations, the Jedi were able to bring members of non-Republic planets into full citizenship through a clause in our charter with the Senate?”

Cody can't help himself; he raises a brow at Mace, faintly incredulous. “No,” he says blandly. “I'm not exactly caught up on the intricacies of Jedi initiation law. Didn’t realize there was going to be a test.”

With a quiet snort, Mace offers him the pad. “It’s open-book,” he promises.

Cody feels a flicker of amusement, even as he takes the pad and scans the first section. It’s a dense, technical bit of legal wording, talking about kin and rights and acceptance into the temple, and Cody frowns. It doesn’t read like a guide for the Jedi taking in non-Republic younglings, but he can't figure out what else it could be. “I feel like I should have a translator,” he says. “Or a lawyer. S—Mace? What is this about?”

“About how all the clone troopers call each other _brother_ ,” Plo says softly. “Making you all kin under Mandalorian law. And, potentially, about how we can take advantage of that link to…sidestep the need for a full Senate vote on clone citizenship.”

“You're going to try and _circumvent_ the whole _Senate_?” Cody asks, disbelieving. “The chancellor has final say, though, and if he’s refused to acknowledge a vote—”

“Ah,” Plo says, smiling behind his mask. “But this clause simply needs the approval of the Master of the Order, and is exempt from Senate oversight. After all, the chancellor has no business telling Jedi who to marry.”

“Plo,” Mace says, reproving, and looks at Cody. Cody tries to focus, but his brain is still stuck and spinning on that last word. _Marry_. Who the hell is a Jedi going to marry? The whole Code forbids it.

“Marry?” Cody manages after a moment, and meets Mace's dark eyes.

“Yes,” Mace says precisely, deftly. He holds Cody's gaze, unflinching. “Plo and I found a way to make sure clones are granted full rights, but to make it work, a clone needs to marry a Jedi. Preferably both high-ranking, with a large amount of visibility in the public.”

Marry a Jedi. Cody swallows, and finally manages to look at Wolffe again. It’s little comfort that Wolffe looks startled, too, eyes on his general with something that Cody can't read in his gaze.

“And this is a secret?” he asks after a long minute of silence, the words not quite right in his mouth. “Aren’t political marriages common?”

“But this can't be a political marriage,” Plo says, tapping his claws together lightly. “Otherwise, it would open up challenges to the charter and its standing in regards to the current interpretations of the Code.” He pauses, deliberate, and then adds, faintly amused, “A love match, however, in defiance of tradition but strong enough to overcome all obstacles—well. There are few ways more assured to win public support. Everyone adores a love story.”

A love story. They mean a charade, unless Cody's been missing a hell of a lot about Wolffe and Plo's relationship. A charade that can fool the entire Republic, all of the Senate, and the chancellor himself. All of the Jedi Order, too, it seems, from the way they're keeping the discussion to Plo and Mace alone.

And then, for the first time, the meaning of the words registers. A high-ranking, visible clone. An equally high-ranked Jedi. Despite the fact that Wolffe and Cody share roughly the same rank, Cody's gotten a lot more press as the commander of the 212th. He swallows, looking between he two Jedi, and asks, “You want me to marry General Koon?”

Wolffe stiffens, eyes narrowing sharply, but Plo just chuckles. “No,” he says. “I would be flattered, of course, but I am simply a council member, and hardly the most senior one at that.”

Which can only mean one thing.

Mace inclines his head under Cody's incredulous stare, expression wry. “I plan to resume my position as Master of the Order,” he says. “Master Yoda has already agreed. As head of the council, that should give the marriage a weight even the chancellor won't test.” He pauses, deliberate, and says, “Cody. This isn't mandatory. It’s not an order. Just a request to consider the proposal. It would be a way to ensure you and your brothers have a future beyond the war, but it’s also not a decision to be made lightly. If you wish to refuse, you are more than welcome to do so.”

 _Proposal_ , Cody thinks, and the phrasing is far more hilarious than it should be. He closes his eyes, breathing in around the biting edge of hysteria, and wonders what the hell he’s supposed to say. “You—if it’s not me, who else?” he asks.

The look Mace and Plo trade is quiet, almost resigned. “Another commander,” Plo offers. “Potentially Commander Colt. Captain Rex is also an option. But this is voluntary, Cody. No one will ever be ordered to agree, and should this fall through, we will keep looking for another way.”

But they’ve found _this_ way, and while it sounds insane, they seem to have faith in it. Cody curls his fingers around his arm, squeezing, and takes a deep breath. “I—when do you need a decision?”

“Preferably before your next deployment,” Mace says, and smiles wryly. “This isn't the sort of thing I want to discuss over a comm channel, even a secure one.”

Cody can imagine. “It would have to be a secret from everyone?” he asks, just to be sure. “You're not going to bring the rest of the council in on this?”

Mace shakes his head. “Any word getting out could potentially make it back to the chancellor and the Senate,” he says. “I trust the members of the Order to have the clones’ best interests at heart. But I would rather not risk this whole plot on people’s abilities to refrain from gossiping.”

Cody snorts, amused despite himself. Given how the troopers gossip, he can just imagine. “Understood.”

Mace inclines his head, polite, careful. “I’ll walk you back to the landing pad,” he says. “You're welcome to take a speeder for your return trip.”

Better than hailing a taxi, Cody thinks wryly. He doesn’t know if he could manage right now, given the way his head feels a little like it’s spinning. “Thank you, s—Mace.”

“It’s no trouble.” Mace doesn’t bother to pick up his discarded outer robe, but he collects his lightsaber, nods to Plo and Wolffe, and gets the door for Cody. The hall outside is still empty, quiet, and Cody wonders if Mace is the only one living in this section. There doesn’t seem to be a difference between Knights’ quarters like Anakin's, council members’ quarters like Obi-Wan’s, and Mace's as Master of the Order. A Jedi thing, likely; Cody hasn’t met one yet who seems to care about where they sleep, what they wear, or what they eat.

Instead of turning back towards the stairs, Mace instead heads down the corridor, deeper into the residential areas. The number of people increases as they approach the center of the temple, and several of the Knights and a few Masters with attendant padawans pause to greet Mace cheerfully enough. Most of them look tired, and several are nursing wounds, but the steady, warm air doesn’t change even here. Cody wonders at the difference from the halls of Kamino, the barracks in the city; those are grim places, or at the very least tense or tired. The temple’s something else, though.

Very much a temple, rather than a home for soldiers, Cody thinks, and it aches a little, like looking at the younglings and realizing they’ll be padawans soon, just like Ahsoka. And—

Mace pauses to speak to a young Twi’lek boy, dressed like a padawan, with a braid of leather and beads hanging from his headwrap. He grins at Mace, who raises a cool eyebrow but answers him quietly, and Cody realizes suddenly, starkly, that he’s only ever seen Mace on a battlefield or in meetings about the war. Not like this, stripped down to a white shirt, with a child looking up at him and solemnly considering what he’s being told.

“Perhaps,” Mace is saying, “you should be sure Niman is not what you wish to pursue before you attempt to branch out into other forms. Your Master has told me you show promise, particularly in your use of the Force during combat.”

The boy grins shyly. “I like it,” he admits. “But my Master said you created your own style, Master Windu.”

“It was necessary,” Mace says. “No others quite suited me. But I believe you will find a form that suits you among the seven in existence.”

“I’ll try,” the boy agrees, thoughtful, and glances past Mace. “Are you Master Windu's commander?” he asks.

Cody flicks a glance at Mace, but can't read his expression well enough to see whether he wants Cody to sidestep the question. Given Cody's scar, there’s no way he can pass as Ponds, though, so he says, “Sorry, I'm Commander Cody, from the 212th Attack Battalion.”

“With Master Kenobi!” the boy says brightly. “I'm strong in the Unifying Force, just like him.”

Cody's never spent more than a few minutes total around Jedi discussing the intricacies of the Force and its variations. He hesitates, not sure how to respond, and Mace smiles a little.

“It is good to be mindful of all possibilities,” he tells the boy seriously. “And to always look for the curve of the future. However, be mindful of the present as well, and don’t let the future overwhelm you.”

“Yes, Master Windu,” the boy says, and bows politely. “Thank you.”

Mace inclines his head in return, then keeps moving, heading for a discrete lift at the bend of the hall. Bemused, Cody nods to the padawan and follows, trying to categorize the interaction. Not warm, really, but—kind, in his response. Measured. The best trainers on Kamino would answer questions like that, if with considerably less patience.

He doesn’t ask, though. Just watches out of the corner of his eye as Mace stands beside him, hands folded behind his back and shoulders straight. Silent, but—not hostile by any means.

Cody can imagine the quiet drives Anakin to distraction within five minutes, though. No wonder he hates being alone with Mace.

When the doors open, the lift is right outside the doors of the landing pad. Mace pauses there, keying them open and then says, “I should be in residence for the next week, if you want to visit. I’ll comm you my entry code so you can access the temple without a guide.”

That sounds…trusting. It itches faintly between Cody's shoulder blades, the trust required, but—Obi-Wan’s the same way. It’s not a new thing, this exasperation at a Jedi. Cody considers it for a moment, then nods and says, “Thank you. I—I'm sorry I can't give you an answer right now.”

Mace raises a brow at him, sardonic. “I will admit, the fact that you're thinking it over is a great relief,” he says dryly. “It’s good to know certain influences haven’t rubbed off on you too thoroughly.”

There’s only one set of influences he can mean, and Cody grimaces. “The generals give me enough grey hairs as it is,” he says ruefully. “I don’t need to give myself any more. Sir.”

That draws a smile, small and quick but definitely present, and Mace inclines his head. “White hair wouldn’t suit you,” he allows. “Better not to risk it.”

 _You want to marry me to free my brothers_ , Cody thinks, and doesn’t know how to answer. _What the hell even is this?_

If Mace picks up on the question, he certainly doesn’t answer it. Cody can't entirely say he’s surprised.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me? Obsessed? _Ha._ As if I have any other setting.

When Cody lets himself back into the office in the barracks, head still buzzing, it’s to find that both Rex and Obi-Wan have disappeared, the only trace of them one of Obi-Wan’s discarded robes. It makes Cody roll his eyes, one flicker of familiar exasperation cutting through the confusion. He goes to pick it up, folding it and checking for Obi-Wan’s lightsaber—thankfully not present—before he drapes it carefully over the back of a chair. The Jedi quartermaster must have a whole stock of them just for Obi-Wan, he thinks, amused.

Then, abruptly, it occurs to him to wonder if Mace ever loses his robes like that. He’s never heard Ponds mention it, but Ponds isn't the type to complain about anything—he could lose a leg at the knee and he’d try to walk it off, the brave bastard.

Ponds aside, though, Cody can't imagine Mace doing much of anything like that. It seems too undignified for a man like General Windu, impractical when Mace wouldn’t deign to be. As far as Cody knows, in all the times they’ve served in the same place, he’s never seen Mace so much as crack a smile. Until today, he might have believed the man couldn’t.

For a moment Cody stares down at the surface of his desk, then closes his eyes, rubbing the heel of his palm against his temple. It’s not quite a headache forming, but—it feels like it could be one. And if any situation ever deserved a headache, it’s likely this one.

Marriage. To a Jedi High General. To the _Master of the Order_. A fake marriage, framed as something real and not just a political alliance, in order to free all of the millions of clones fighting across the galaxy.

Cody sinks down in his chair, closing his eyes. He tries to think of something, anything, but the only thing he can dredge up from the tangle of his thoughts is an image of Slick, back on Christophsis. Not Slick as a traitor, getting dragged away by guards to probably rot in a prison somewhere, but—Slick as Cody always knew him, the sly, good-natured sergeant who took broken brothers and helped them find their feet again. Not soft, but not evil, either. Not someone who’d gotten his fellow clones murdered just because he wanted his own freedom so badly.

“Shit,” Cody says, ragged, into the silence, and opens his eyes, shoving the image back to whatever dark corner it usually lurks in. He doesn’t want to think about Slick, the first personal betrayal. Doesn’t want to dwell on him, or what his actions mean, or how many brothers out there feel the same way, except they're selfless enough to stick it out and keep fighting.

They're Mandalorian. They were born and bred for this war. They like to fight, and there’s not one of them that would turn down a challenge when faced with it. And yet—

None of the clones are fighting by choice. It’s the only thing they know, and it’s what they're meant for, so they're doing it. After the war is a pipe dream, an illusion. It’s not here yet and it might never be.

But when it comes, what’s going to happen to them?

Cody doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want to have to be responsible for the fate of every brother in existence. It’s hard enough being the marshal commander of the 7th Sky Battalion.

And yet.

It’s _tempting_ , isn't it? Guaranteed freedom, due to whatever loophole the generals managed to find, with certainty for Cody's freedom and near-certainty for the rest of the clones as well. Mace isn't just another Jedi, either; he’s…

He’s who Cody thinks of automatically whenever anyone says _the High General_ , whether they're referring to another council member or not. It’s automatic, easy.

Mace Windu's troops have some of the highest survival rates, too. He takes care of his men, and grim disposition aside—

But he wasn’t grim the whole time, in the temple. Wasn’t _friendly_ , exactly, but he was warm with the padawan, cautiously kind. Cody's never heard Ponds say a bad word about him, and maybe that’s partially because Ponds wouldn’t badmouth a superior no matter what, Cody's also willing to say that it’s just because of Mace.

Taking a breath, Cody casts a wary glance at the datapad Mace gave him, sitting innocently on the edge of his desk. Legalese, and he’s not looking forward to going through all of that, but it’s probably thorough, knowing Plo Koon. He takes care of his troopers, too, and neither he nor Mace would shove Cody into this without knowing all the ins and outs. Probably.

“Woah, that’s a look,” a voice jokes from over his head. “What did Waxer and Boil do now?”

Without lifting his head, Cody answers, “If a pair of troopers gave me this look, it would probably be Jesse and Kix. But I don’t have a look, sir.”

Anakin scoffs pointedly, and Cody glances up to find him leaning in the doorway, arms folded and expression concerned. “If that’s not a look, Ahsoka didn’t have a fit of teenage angst this morning and break my window,” he says pointedly. “Was it really Jesse and Kix? Because I can talk to them—”

“They're fine, sir,” Cody says, amused. “And even if they weren’t, it’s Rex who would have to deal with them, not me.”

“Oh, right.” Anakin grins at him. “We’ve been shoved together so often it’s hard to remember the 212th and 501st aren’t actually the same.”

Cody lets out a wry breath, because that’s very true. “Colorblind, sir?” he asks regardless. “Because we do try to make ourselves easy to tell apart.”

“And it works, but when everything’s covered in dirt it gets a little harder.”

Cody's not about to argue with that. He sets Mace's pad aside, then asks, “What can I do for you, General?”

Anakin sighs, faintly irritated but mostly amused. “I'm looking for Obi-Wan. _Or_ Rex. Master Obi-Wan mentioned he was coming down here earlier, but now I can't seem to find any trace of him.”

Silently, Cody points across his desk, to the sad, abandoned robe draped over the chair.

For a long moment, Anakin just stares at it. Then, bright, he laughs, coming forward to pick it up. “Is he molting again?” he asks, almost delighted. “I swear, he was never this bad when I was a padawan.” Then he pauses, considers, and snorts. “Well, probably not. All his cloaks look the same, so it’s hard to tell sometimes.”

“I'm going to start putting locator chips on them,” Cody confesses. “On his lightsaber, too. I've already got the requisition form in.”

Anakin snickers. “Just give him a subdermal implant while you're at it,” he advises. “He gets kidnapped enough to justify it.”

“I don’t think you're one to talk, sir,” Cody says dryly, and Anakin pulls a face him.

“We’re not talking about _me_ ,” he says. “We’re talking about what’s making you look like someone just handed you a rancor as a pet.”

Cody opens his mouth to misdirect again, then pauses. Closes it, considers for a moment, but—he’s not really going to get a better chance to poke at the problem.

“Sir,” he asks carefully. “Do you really hate General Windu?”

Anakin blinks, clearly not expecting the question. “Jedi don’t hate,” he says automatically, with the immediacy of something that’s become rote. Then he hesitates, clearly considering the question more carefully, and frowns. “I—do you have a mission with Windu coming up?”

 _No, but I might be getting married to him_ , Cody very carefully doesn’t think. He’s never been entirely sure how well Jedi can read minds, whether they need to concentrate to do it. Doesn’t want to risk it, in case they don’t. “I just noticed it, recently,” Cody says, and casts his memory back a little frantically, trying to remember the last time Mace came up. “When you and General Kenobi were talking about Ryloth. It seemed like you disliked him.”

Anakin pauses for so long that Cody almost thinks he’s not going to answer. Then, with a crooked frown, he says, “I do. Dislike him. He’s a bastard, and he’s cold. He doesn’t _understand_ —” He breaks off, closes his mouth, takes a breath. Says, more evenly, “Do you know how I ended up at the temple?”

Not entirely sure what that has to do with anything, Cody raises a brow. “Obi-Wan’s old Master found you on Tatooine,” he says. “He won you in a bet against your owner, freed you, and brought you back. And when he died, Obi-Wan took you as his student.”

“More or less,” Anakin says. “But—they weren’t going to let anyone train me. I was too old to go into the creche, and I didn’t know enough to go right t being a padawan. So—the High Council tested me and said I wasn’t fit to be a Jedi.”

Cody sits back, startled. He definitely hasn’t heard that part of the story before. “But…they changed their minds,” he says cautiously, not sure if this is a touchy subject or not.

Anakin tips his shoulder in a shrug. “Sure. Eventually. But…” He grimaces. “Windu was the one to refuse, officially. And I was a _kid_ , and everything was scary, and I was so kriffing cold. And Windu was the coldest thing in the temple.” He lets that settle for a moment, weighty, and then takes a disgruntled breath, scrubbing a hand over his hair. “I’ve never even seen him smile, you know? Master Obi-Wan is everything a Jedi's supposed to be, because he’s kind and everyone loves him and he’s just— _sympathetic_. He understands people. I guess Master Windu is just—too distant.”

 _But I saw him smile_ , Cody wants to say. Doesn’t, but nods, and says, “Thank you, sir. For the explanation.”

Anakin wrinkles his nose. “It sounds stupid, when I lay it out,” he says. “I just don’t like him.”

Kriff. That’s not going to make this easy. Assuming Cody decides to go through with it. Thankfully, Cody doesn’t serve directly under Anakin, though that likely will only dampen the blowback a little. Still, Anakin's words are something to keep in mind. Just—another point to consider. If Cody does this, he’s going to have to pretend to be in love, which is unfamiliar territory to begin with. And somehow, Mace Windu doesn’t seem like the kind of man who invites traditional romantic gestures.

But—

It’s not the only thing to consider.

“If it helps, sir,” he says, more to distract himself from his spinning thoughts than anything. “General Kenobi was teaching Rex to meditate earlier. They might have gone somewhere together afterwards.”

Anakin's expression slants towards miffed. “ _I_ could have taught Rex how to meditate if he wanted to learn!” he protests.

Silently, judgmentally, Cody raises a brow at him.

“I _could_ ,” Anakin mutters, giving him a narrow look. “Obi-Wan’s been rubbing off on you. You used to be _nice_.”

“My batchmates would argue otherwise,” Cody says, amused, and pulls Mace's datapad towards him. “While you're here, sir, I have some requisition forms that need a signature—”

“I better check Dex’s,” Anakin says quickly. “Obi-Wan’s going to get cold without his cloak. Later, Cody!”

It never fails, Cody thinks, chuckling to himself, and sinks back in his chair. He turns the pad on, then quickly checks what files are loaded onto it. They're not labeled, but given the level of secrecy Plo and Mace are operating under, Cody isn't surprised. He picks one at random, and is mildly startled to find recent judicial cases, organized by relevance to clone rights.

It’s not the type of light reading Cody was hoping to get to tonight, but…well. Best to make an informed decision, considering what’s at stake. And if he knows where Mace is coming from, it might help make this whole thing seem less like a mad scheme dreamed up under the influence of too many stimulants.

Well. Probably. Cody just got proposed to by a man who’s supposedly never smiled in Anakin's presence, who is a legend to his troopers and the Jedi alike. Who is in the same boat as Cody, and seems entirely willing to put himself in a false marriage _forever_ just to make sure Cody's brothers get the freedom they deserve.

It’s going to be a long night, Cody thinks with a sigh, and turns his desk lamp on.

Mace catches Shaak in the hanger, overseeing the loading of supplies. Casting a quick eye over what’s being carried aboard, Mace checks how much ammunition they're setting aside, and then makes a quick detour to tell one of the Knights assisting her to double it. Then, mildly more assured, he heads for Shaak, offering her commander a nod. Colt nods back, helmet off and hooked to his belt, gaze wary as he looks Mace over.

“Mace,” Shaak says, pleased, and leans in. Mace lets her hug him, resting a hand against her back, and smiles faintly at the hum of _strength-contentment-peace_ that always clings to her in the Force. “Here to see me off?”

“Among other things,” Mace allows, and she tips her head curiously, stepping back.

“Well,” she says with faint amusement. “I should have known that pleasantries alone couldn’t pry you out of your office. What do you need?”

“A private place to talk, to start with,” Mace says, and nods towards a quiet alcove near the edge of the hangar. It’s quiet enough that they can speak, but loud enough to drown out any potential eavesdropping, electronic or otherwise. “If you have the time.”

“Of course.” Shaak casts a glance at Colt, then asks, “Is this Jedi business?”

“Yes,” Mace says grimly. “But the clones are deeply involved as well. Commander Colt, would you care to join us?”

Colt looks surprised, brows rising, but he inclines his head sharply. “I’d be honored, sir.”

Gently, Shaak takes Mace's arm, guiding him towards the indicated spot. “Does this have to do with the discussion I interrupted?” she asks quietly. “You and Master Yoda don’t disagree often.”

Mace grimaces. “I'm making arrangements to take back my position as Master of the Order,” he says. “Having the Grand Master hold a position as head of the council is uncomfortable, in my view. Master Yoda agreed.” Eventually. Not that Mace is surprised he objected. Yoda’s been wary the last few years, as the Darkness thickens. Any changes are enough to worry him now.

Shaak sighs quietly. “I suppose there’s every reason for him to be concerned, given your service on the front. But I trust the Force will lead the Jedi well, regardless of what happens to us as individuals.”

There are no individuals among the Jedi, only parts of the greater Order. Mace has lived that way since he was six months old, and he wouldn’t want to change it if he could. It’s simple enough for a Jedi to decide to leave, and some do, because it’s a difficult way for some people to live, but Mace has never wanted to, even for a moment. He’s a Jedi, right to his core.

“But,” Shaak says quietly, and folds her hands in front of her as she turns to face Mace. “This isn't actually about your conversation with Master Yoda, is it?”

“It’s not,” Mace allows, and steps sideways, until he can see both Shaak and Colt without anyone else seeing his face. “Shaak, you intend to find out more about the cloning process.”

It’s not a question, but Shaak inclines her head. “The Kaminoans have been reluctant to allow anyone to see their system,” she says. “But as the Republic is their client, I believe I can persuade them to be more transparent.”

“Good,” Mace says grimly. “While you're doing that, see if you can get them to stop the rapid aging once the clones reach adulthood.”

Shaak blinks, and at her elbow Colt snaps his head up. “General Windu?” he asks, eyes narrowing.

Mace meets his stare evenly. “You are entitled to a life that is as long as it can be,” he says. “Not one cut short by genetic meddling. I assume if the Kaminoans can trigger it, they can turn it off as well.”

“That would indeed be logical,” Shaak says, thoughtful, and gives Colt a half-smile. “Once the war is over, it would be far better for you to have the time to enjoy it.”

Colt frowns. “The Kaminoans won't like it,” he warns. “If you imply their work isn't perfect, it’s an insult.”

“One they must endure, in the course of doing business,” Mace says, unimpressed. “Commander, do you know of any other modifications made to your genes?”

Colt hesitates, mouth tightening, and then tips his chin up. “Nothing concrete,” he says. “But…there’ve been rumors, going around. The long-necks did something to make us all less…aggressive than the original. Couple of different theories, but I've never heard one I knew was right.”

Mace exchanges looks with Shaak. “Jango Fett was certainly more vicious than I've ever seen a clone be,” she says, and Mace can feel the shiver-spike of concern around her. “Something to look into, certainly. Thank you, Colt.”

“Of course, sir.” Colt’s smile is crooked. “The rumors started after my batch of ARC troopers, so I wasn’t sure if it was just shinies telling tales, but since you're asking…”

The Force is a clouded thing, especially on Coruscant. The future has become nothing but shadows and menacing premonitions whenever Mace has tried to look in that direction, but—

For the first time in a very long while, he feels a flicker of certainty, a hunch, a feeling.

The Force works through Jedi as instinct, and Mace makes a habit of listening to his.

“Shaak,” he says, and Shaak stills at his tone, all of her attention on him. “Whatever you have to do to get Commander Colt transferred to you, do it, and soon. Keep him close as much as you can.”

Shaak is an experienced Jedi; she doesn’t protest that she can defend herself, just studies his face for a long moment and then says quietly, “You sense something, Mace?”

“Maybe,” Mace says, because the Force is never unreliable, but…it’s been quiet, these last few years. Instead of the sharpness of her gaze, he looks over to Colt, whose concern is clear on his face. “Commander. If you don’t wish to take the assignment, assign it to one of your batchmates, but no one else.”

“No need, sir,” Colt says, and glances sideways at Shaak. “I'm more than happy to protect the general however it’s required.”

“Even if it means going against the Kaminoans?” Mace asks gravely.

Colt’s grin shows _teeth_. “You know how many brothers General Ti’s kept from being _deactivated_ since she took over training? Believe me, sir, she’s safe with me.”

“And you,” Shaak says with a touch of good humor, “are equally safe with me, Colt.” She considers for a moment, head bowed, headdress catching the shifting light from beyond the doors, and then says, “If there are any Knights to be spared from active duty, I could use the assistance of another Jedi. Particularly if the Kaminoans are…unforthcoming.”

Mace raises a brow. “Another skilled negotiator, of course,” he says.

Shaak's smile is perfectly innocent, but Mace knew her in the creche; he can see the wickedness behind that polite expression. “Of course,” she echoes. “You know I sometimes trip over my words terribly, Mace.”

Shaak has never so much as stumbled in a sentence since she was seven, and Mace knows it as well as she does. He buries his amusement, though, and offers, “I believe Agen Kolar is between assignments. I will send him after you as soon as he’s been debriefed.”

“Agen?” Shaak's lips twitch. “You do wish the Kaminoans to _survive_ this…discussion, don’t you?”

“Agen always warns before he attacks,” Mace counters. “And he’s one of the best swordsmen in the Order, regardless of his distaste for diplomacy.” A moment, and he allows, rueful, “I expect you will do much of the talking, Shaak.”

“Very much,” Shaak says dryly, but she inclines her head. “I will await his arrival, then. It will be good to have another Master close, and one skilled in infiltration, as well.”

What Agen is good at is less infiltration and more breaking and entering, but Mace allows the generous interpretation without protest. “Be careful,” he says quietly. “The Kaminoans have been particularly unforthcoming, given that the Republic is the client in this situation.”

“Yes,” Shaak says with a sigh. “I have indeed noticed that.” She looks at Mace for a long moment, clever, attentive, and then reaches out to take his hands in her own. “Mace. You should also be careful. I had forgotten how clouded the Force is here.”

Mace breathes out. Shaak knows, as well as any member of the council. The Core worlds are drowning, and Coruscant is at the heart of the darkness. “Thankfully,” he says, dry, “I'm to be deployed again by the end of the week.”

Shaak laughs, small and rough, and grips his hands tightly for a moment. “Until we meet again,” she says. “May the Force be with you, my friend.”

“And with you, Shaak,” Mace says. Steps back, offering Colt a nod. “Commander. _Ret'urcye mhi_.”

The Mando’a phrase makes Colt smile, and he nods sharply. “ _Ret'urcye mhi_ , General. If the Force wills it.”

“I have faith it will.” Mace steps back, watching as they head for their small ship. There are a pair of clone troopers on board, and they greet Shaak gladly, then move towards the front. Shaak follows, graceful in the twilight, with Colt a heavily armed shadow behind her, and Mace breathes out anxiety into the Force, lets himself settle. Stands there, observing, until the ramp lifts, the engines start. A moment later, clearance must come in, because the ship takes off, and Mace stands where he is until it’s vanished against the growing darkness of Coruscant’s skyline.

There's something unsettled, uneasy in his chest. It’s like the moment before a shatterpoint forms, the crystallization of events and futures bending together, but nothing comes of it. The feeling just builds, grows, curls like a monster beneath the waves. It’s heavy, and Mace doesn’t know what triggered it. Shaak's report about the clone troopers and their training? His conversation with Cody? One of his conversations with Plo? His debate with Yoda about the future of the Order?

Too many options exist, and Mace can't sort through them. He rubs his forehead, grimacing, and then straightens determinedly. He has his lightsaber with him, and from here the training salles are only a short walk. A few katas will help clear his mind enough that meditation will come easily, and then he can hopefully sleep.

Of course, because the universe conspires to keep itself as interesting as possible, the second-biggest headache in the Order is loitering outside the hangar, studying a plant far to closely and very obviously waiting for Mace. Mace stares at him for a moment, wondering if he can sneak in the other direction before he’s noticed, but he has some dignity remaining.

“Obi-Wan,” he says blandly.

Twitching, Obi-Wan turns to face him, face instantly smoothing into more composed lines. “Master Windu,” he says formally. Then, deliberate, he blinks, and says, “You're looking rather more relaxed than normal, Mace.”

Mace levels a flat look at him. “I'm on my way to the training salles,” he says, warning more than invitation, but when he passes Obi-Wan falls into step without hesitation.

“Master,” he says quietly, “I wished to ask your advice, if you would be willing to give it.”

Mace doesn’t look at him, but he does slow his steps slightly. “You know you're welcome to come to me,” he says after a moment. “Being council members hardly lessens our reliance on each other, as members of the Order.”

That makes Obi-Wan let out an almost inaudible breath, wry and rueful. “It was rather more concerning…certain failings,” he says carefully. “And your advice for dealing with them.”

Mace raises a brow. He’s never hidden his own faults—frequently asks for help in overcoming them, because he’s never put much stock in pride as anything but a stumbling block to growth. “Certain?” he repeats, and Obi-Wan pulls a face.

“It’s Anakin,” he confesses after a moment. “He’s been very…angry, since Geonosis. More reckless. Gaining a padawan helped for a while, but I still find myself concerned for him.”

Understandable, Mace thinks. The war tends to make them all angry, at every turn. And—he learned to master his anger, because he had to. Because he likes to fight, and he’s very good at it, and that makes for a good killer but a bad Jedi.

Mace considers the problem for a moment. With anyone else, he would offer to mentor them, train with them for a brief while, but Anakin likely won't take that well. He, at least, still cares quite a lot about pride. Most of the time, Mace is sure he’ll grow out of it.

“His anger is justified,” he says at length, and when Obi-Wan flicks him a wary look, Mace doesn’t waver. “There’s a source, and the source is justified. The anger that spills over, boils up from that pit—that is less justified. Try to identify what causes the anger, at its very heart, and address the problem rather than the symptoms.”

“Ah,” Obi-Wan says, a bare exhale, and his mouth curves into something wry beneath his beard. “It seems so simple, phrased like that.”

“There is nothing simple about it,” Mace says, with the certainty of experience, and pauses at an intersection of hallways. “You care about him,” he says after a moment, and when Obi-Wan draws himself up faintly, Mace raises a hand. “That will make it harder. But…persist.”

“Thank you,” Obi-Wan says after a pause, watching him. “And if I asked whether I could send Anakin to speak with you…”

“I would ask how you planned to keep him from jumping out the window as soon as I closed the door,” Mace says, dry. “I'm a Jedi Master, Obi-Wan, not a miracle worker.”

Obi-Wan laughs a little. “Well, I’ll admit I've seen some overlap over the years,” he says.

Mace could turn and walk away. Considers it, even, because it would be simple, but—

“Anakin loves deeply,” he says, and thinks of Plo's quiet _perhaps, given the changing nature of the galaxy, there is room for…adjustment. To suit a new way of existence for the Jedi_. “We have pushed him not to. But…love is not a flaw. Only in excess and in exclusion of sense does it become a hindrance. Perhaps knowing that will help him find a balance within himself.”

Obi-Wan says nothing, and after a long stretch of silent seconds Mace assumes he won't. He nods to Obi-Wan, then keeps moving, not about to give up his plans for the evening. He only has a handful of days before he’s expected back on the front, after all.


	4. Chapter 4

It is, perhaps, the most predictable thing that a series of disasters interrupts all their careful planning.

Mace is accustomed, at this point, to keeping his comm on him whenever he happens to leave his rooms, even when he’s just heading for the refectory for the morning meal. The insistent beeping is almost expected, and Mace answers as soon as he hears it, stepping sharply to the side out of the flow of bodies and bringing the comm up. “Windu,” he says shortly.

“There’s a transmission from Master Secura, coming in from the Esstran system,” a communications officer informs him. “It’s urgent, Master.”

Mace doesn’t curse, but he turns on his heel, not quite running but certainly picking up his pace as he cuts across the hall, ducks down another, and vaults over the edge of a tall staircase. A touch of the Force cushions his landing, and he waves open the closest comm room door, ducking in. There's a projector in here, and normally Mace would wait, take the transmission in front of the rest of the Council, but Aayla is level-headed, steady; if she says something’s urgent, there’s no doubt it is.

“I'm ready,” he says curtly, starting the projector with a gesture, and straightens just in time to see a shimmering blue holo take form. Aayla is in one piece, but her expression is grim, and her outer robe is torn and scorched, her leather headwrap replaced with a makeshift wrap of cloth to hold her lekku back.

“Master Secura,” Mace says.

“Master Windu,” Aayla says. “It’s Grievous.”

Cold slides down through Mace's chest, but he doesn’t let himself acknowledge it. Calls up, instead, what he can remember of Aayla’s deployment; she’s near the Ord Radama system, protecting a vulnerable series of footholds the Republic has been able to maintain in the Outer Rim. If Grievous manages to take them, the Republic will lose its access to at least six important trade routes, as well as staging grounds for an eventual siege of the Outer Rim Confederacy worlds.

Mace wants to curse, but—that’s a familiar feeling, these days.

“Are you holding?” he asks.

Aayla pauses, then finally shakes her head. “The _Liberty_ has taken damage,” she says. “We’ve lost one cruiser already, and Grievous hasn’t let up on his attack. If it continues, we’ll have to pull back and leave him to take Ord Radama.”

Ord Radama has too many ordinance depots and too valuable a military base to be allowed to fall into Grievous’s hands for any length of time. Aayla’s troops alone aren’t going to be enough to hold him off, though, and they're far too few to retake the planet once he captures it.

Well. Leave was short, it seems. Not that Mace expected differently.

“Reinforcements will be on their way,” Mace says. “Hold the line, but don’t keep fighting if the only outcome will be a slaughter.”

Relief flickers across Aayla’s face, and she nods. “Grievous is attempting to force us out of the system, but I believe we can maintain a force at the edge of the Radama Void while he is occupied with the planet, and keep him from pushing further into the sector.”

“Do it,” Mace agrees, and he’s already shifting battle plans in his head, reorganizing, prioritizing. They can't lose the Outer Rim; troops will have to be drawn away from other active fronts to make sure they don’t. “Keep us updated, Master Secura.”

“I’ll do my best,” Aayla says grimly, and a blare of alarms behind her makes her spin, the transmission winking out. This time Mace does curse, alone in the small room, and heads back out at a fast clip. Doesn’t head for the Council room in the highest tower, but for the landing pad instead, and sends out a comm to all the other available council members, alerting them, and requesting Obi-Wan and Anakin comm him back. In the same moment, a message from military command comes in, blaring an urgent alert, and Mace takes the call.

It’s the same information Aayla gave him, if more detailed. Grievous launching a surprise attack against a vulnerable point in their deployment, pressing a general who’s far from backup and has already been fighting for weeks without pause. It’s clever, and Mace hates Grievous bitterly for a moment before he shoves the feeling away, letting it trickle out into the Force.

“With the 212th and the 501st, we can retake the system,” Mace says. “The 91st will assist with recon and targeted strikes.”

“Kiss your leave goodbye,” the admiral on the other end says, grimly amused. “Your cruisers are ready to leave space-dock whenever you are.”

It will be five days of travel to get to the Esstran system, and maybe half a day to get all the troops mobilized and on their way. There are no closer troops that can pull away from their current engagements, though, and the 212th, 501st, and 91st are all relatively fresh and rested, supplies restocked and cruisers repaired. With luck and a good amount of stubbornness, Aayla can likely hold the edge of the Radama Void that long, but—

There are dangerous systems past the Void, and if she’s pushed back too far, Grievous won't be the biggest threat she has to face.

Grimly, Mace closes the line, catches a passing padawan, and sends the girl off to his quarters to retrieve his armor and robes. It’s rare that a Jedi owns more than they can carry on them at any given time, for reasons just like this, but armor isn't a luxury in wartime. Mace has learned to make adjustments.

By the time he’s made it to the hangar, with three more pauses to answer calls and arrange for the sudden movement of several thousand troops, the Trandoshan girl is waiting for him, and she passes over his armor with solemn reverence. Mace nods his thanks to her, then waves her off and heads to where a transport is approaching.

“General!” Razor greets him cheerfully as he mounts the ramp. “I guess the Seppies thought we were getting bored, huh?”

Mace feels a flicker of amusement, lets it show in a way he might not normally. Lightning Squadron is his, though, and after they’ve hauled him through a week straight of mud after a bad battle, they get allowances other people don’t. “Apparently. Or maybe they're trying to keep you out of trouble.”

Stak laughs, elbowing Razor in the ribs. “Missed their mark a bit, then. Battlefield’s where all the fun trouble is.”

Ponds rolls his eyes a little, but he offers Mace a crooked smile and the datapad he’s holding as soon as he’s within arm’s length. “General Windu. The _Endurance_ is prepped and ready, and thirty percent of the men are back on board. The rest of the loading should only take two hours.”

Two hours is better than Mace had expected. He accepts the pad with a nod, catching a strap on the wall as the transport lifts off again, and flips through the stats. “Thank you, Commander. Any word on the status of the _Negotiator_ and the _Resolute_?”

“Captain Rex sent me a projection of seven more hours—the _Resolute_ was undergoing repairs and can't leave before then,” Ponds says. “The _Negotiator_ is still having engine trouble—Commander Cody's trying to get the troops redistributed onto other cruisers, but Generals Kenobi and Skywalker are with us for now. Their fleets are mostly ready to go, though.”

Mace can think of a thousand other things he’d rather do than share a cruiser with Skywalker and his tendency to crash ships, but he just raises a brow and hands the pad back. “Thank you, Commander. Call ahead and set quarters aside for as many of the _Negotiator_ ’s troops as possible, and see if our other ships can take any of the overflow. I have faith in the 91st’s skill, but we operate best with assistance.”

“Yes, sir.” Ponds’s expression is wry for just a moment. “Tight quarters for everyone, this trip.”

“You expected it to go smoothly?” Mace asks dryly, and breathes out. Three days of leave, not counting the trip back to Coruscant, and—that’s not much, but it will have to be enough. The men will be tired, but hopefully not entirely exhausted.

“Maybe we’ll show up and General Grievous will decide to surrender,” Blowback says optimistically, and waves his pad in Mace's direction. “We managed to get those new AT-RT models in time. They're waiting on the ship, and they're _pretty_ , General.”

“Thank the Chancellor,” Mace tells him. “He put in a good word for us.”

“Because you asked him to?” Ponds asks, smiling a little. When Mace gives him a level look, confessing nothing, he doesn’t press. “Rations might get a bit tight with so many mouths to feed, but given the _Resolute_ ’s delay, there should be enough time to get a few extra shipments up to her before she sets out. Rex is arranging it now.”

“Contact the temple, see if they have anything they can spare,” Mace orders, and Razor salutes and moves to obey. “Tell them the request comes from me.”

“Council members get to raid the snacks whenever they want?” Stak jokes.

Mace snorts. “Likely not most council members,” he allows. “But Master Yoda might make allowances this time. The senators from the Mid-Rim are getting testy about feeding us.”

“And who exactly do they think is supposed to keep their nice, squishy planets safe when the Seps decide they’d rather just bomb everything and take what they want?” Razor mutters, then twitches. “Not you, sorry, sir.”

Amused, Mace follows Ponds back towards the cockpit, where Ayo and Clip offer quick salutes but don’t waver from the controls. More than glad to have a quiet moment, Mace simply watches Coruscant fall away beneath them, the busy air traffic dying down as they approach the GAR shipyards a short distance from the planet. The _Endurance_ is a hulking silver shape in her dock, in much better repair than either of the other cruisers present; Mace's duties tend to keep him away from all the firefights Anakin and Obi-Wan trip into, and even when they don’t, the 91st is a reconnaissance corps first and foremost.

“At least the view from the Ord Radama system won't be too bad,” Ponds says quietly, leaning against the bulkhead next to Mace. “There's some kind of nebula out there, from what Bly was telling me.”

Mace closes his eyes. “The Stygian Caldera,” he says evenly. “It’s beautiful, yes.”

Dangerous, more than that. Jedi history is long enough to remember when that part of the Outer Rim was nothing but a battleground, the edge of two competing empires. Centuries ago, now, but the Caldera is still there. If Grievous tries to press Aayla back in that direction, past the Radama Void, and she doesn’t have any choice but to go—

They’ll get there before that happens. Mace has to have faith that Aayla and her men can hold Grievous back long enough.

“Looking a little twitchy, vod,” a voice behind Cody says.

Because Cody's _not_ twitchy, he doesn’t react for a long moment, signing another form and sending it on to all the bureaucrats who need it. “Maybe you're projecting,” he says, glancing up to level a narrow look at Ponds, who grins. Cody can't hold his annoyance long in the face of that look, and he gives in and grins back, bumping gloves with the other commander.

“Maybe,” Ponds says, but not like he believes it. “Or maybe Skywalker’s rubbing off on me.”

Cody snorts, because Anakin's definitely been twitchy, even if they’ve only been on Mace's flagship for a grand total of ten hours. “I think your general scares him,” he drawls, and Ponds laughs.

“General Windu has that effect,” he says easily, but his smile is all easy admiration. He tips his head towards the upper deck and asks, “You get your bunk assignment yet?”

It’s tempting to pull a face, because Cody's gotten used to having his own quarters, even if they’re usually roughly the size of a shoebox. Still, the _Endurance_ lending the 212th space means they don’t have to crawl behind and hope the engines work long enough to get them all the way to the Outer Rim, so Cody's not about to start complaining. “Not yet,” he says. “Why, you offering to give yours up?”

Ponds is an easygoing bastard, for all that he likes barking orders on the battlefield. He just tips a shoulder in a shrug and says, “Share, at least. My quarters can fit three, and since you and Rex are out a pair of fancy beds, I thought I’d offer.”

Even with three of them in one room, there will probably be more space than if Cody tries to jam himself into one of the trooper bunkrooms. “Thanks, vod,” he says, and claps Ponds on the shoulder. “You might regret bringing Rex into this, though. He snores like a bantha with a head cold.”

“Can't be worse than Ayo,” Ponds says, and raises a brow. “Done here?”

Cody takes a look around the hangar and lets out a quiet breath. “Probably,” he allows, though it’s reluctant. The first few hours of shipping out are always stressful, and Cody doesn’t deal with them quite as well as Rex or Ponds. He’s not as bad as Bly, at least. “Just tying up some loose ends.”

Ponds’s smile says he knows perfectly well what Cody's actually doing, but he doesn’t say anything. Shoves Cody lightly in the shoulder, steering him up the hall, and says, “Then you’ve got time to get settled in. Come on, vod, leave some work for other people, too.”

Cody rolls his eyes, but lets himself be moved, pacing Ponds up the long halls. “I’d rather do the paperwork now than later,” he tells Ponds, who just shakes his head.

“Of course you would,” he says, blatantly humoring Cody, who gives him a frown. Ponds ignores it, nudging him into a lift.

It’s occupied, because that’s absolutely how things in Cody's life go.

“Sir,” Ponds says easily, and nods to Mace.

Mace's steady gaze slides from Ponds to Cody and back again, and he inclines his head in return. “Ponds, Commander Cody. Your men settled in all right?”

“No problems, sir,” Cody answers, careful, and doesn’t think about the second pad tucked into his kit. Doesn’t think about being _married_ , and what that could mean for Ponds, for every other clone in the galaxy. “Thank you for making the space for us.”

“The 91st operates with fewer men,” Mace says, and if he’s at all bothered by the memory of the meeting in his quarters, Cody can't even see a _hint_ of it. Not that that’s surprising. “It was the logical solution.”

“Still, it’s appreciated,” Cody manages, and hopes like hell he doesn’t sound as awkward as he feels.

Mace simply accepts that with a tilt of his head. “Alert me if there’s anything you need,” he says, and when the lift hisses to a stop he sweeps out of it, heading for the bridge.

“No idea why Skywalker’s so nervous,” Ponds says, laughing faintly.

Cody can't let that much amusement pass unremarked. He kicks Ponds in the ankle, and tells him, “I’ll set Rex on you for insulting his general.”

“Terrifying,” Ponds says, unimpressed, because he fights just as dirty as Rex when he needs to. Casts Cody a sideways glance, and then says, “I'm pretty sure you’ve served with General Windu before.”

Cody very carefully doesn’t wince. Not as subtle as he’d hoped, then. “I have,” he says, and then, because keeping _your general wants to marry me_ a secret is more important than his pride, he adds, “I always forget he’s like that.”

Ponds just smiles, leading him in the opposite direction from the bridge. “General Windu's a good man,” he says without hesitation.

Cody remembers Anakin's words, of a cold figure denying a little boy training, and doesn’t know what to think. Maybe it’s just that Mace Windu the general is different from Mace Windu the Jedi. If that’s the case, though, what would it mean for Cody marrying him? Which one would he be getting?

“Here,” Ponds says, apparently content to let Cody keep his silence. Then again, if he works with Mace, he’s probably used to quiet people. He palms the door open, then says, “I don’t lock it, so you shouldn’t need a code. Pick either of the empty beds. I’ll let Rex know when I see him.”

“Thanks, Ponds,” Cody says, because he can at least manage that.

Ponds just waves a hand, dismissing the thanks. “I need to talk to the general. If you get lost, just comm me.”

Cody makes a rude hand-sign in his direction, but Ponds already has his back turned, so it’s a wasted effort. With a roll of his eyes that at least makes him feel better, Cody steps into the room, letting the door shut. The bed along the far wall has Ponds’s kit on it, so Cody claims the one to the right, dropping his kit into the footlocker and then sitting down on the thin mattress. It’s a larger room than he usually ends up in, but that probably has more to do with the 91st being smaller than the 212th, with less of a command structure to accommodate. Less need for them, too; the 91st hits fast and ruthlessly, and Lightning Squadron in particular has a reputation for cutting down droid battalions before the clankers can even call in air support.

Mace usually leads the charges personally. A lot of Jedi do, but—Cody just considers it for a moment, that’s all.

He slumps back on the bed for a minute, closing his eyes. Reading all night wasn’t the best idea, and he hadn’t lasted _quite_ until sunrise, but he definitely hadn’t expected an emergency deployment. Tiredness itches behind his eyelids, and he debates just catching a quick nap. The troops are mostly settled, after all, and Obi-Wan is occupied with Anakin and Ahsoka. No one’s going to need him for at least a few hours.

Sleep would be a lot easier if he didn’t already know what he’s going to tell Mace.

It’s the easy choice, after all. Freedom for all of Cody's brothers, a future for whatever clones manage to survive the war. Citizenship, and fair treatment, and a way out for any brothers who want it. In the face of that, and the way Mace and Plo laid out their careful, meticulous case, marrying a Jedi doesn’t seem like such a terrible fate.

And if it is—

Well. Cody's a soldier. He knows how to make a sacrifice, when the situation calls for it, and he’s pretty sure this one does. And maybe it doesn’t have to be him, but—

Cody' _wants_ freedom. Wants it in a way he doesn’t allow himself to think about very often, because before this it was a mirage, always out of reach. But now, it’s possible. Now it’s a reality.

With a sigh, Cody closes his eyes, lets himself settle. He woke up to the news of a new deployment, didn’t have any time to make plans about how to go back and tell Mace his decision. The day hasn’t left him any time to plan a conversation, either, which might be for the best. Conversations don’t tend to go like they're supposed to, between sentients. He’s seen that plenty of times with Obi-Wan and his negotiations, or Anakin trying to have a meaningful conversation with Ahsoka. People are bad at talking, in his experience.

The hiss of the door opening makes him flinch, and he sits up quickly, cursing himself for losing time. It’s possible he’s more tired than he’d thought.

Thankfully, it’s only Rex and Ponds, neither of them paying attention to Cody stretched out on his bunk, still in uniform. Still in his boots, even.

“—told him it was going to be the last thing he ever did, if that Kiffar bastard found out,” Ponds is saying, shaking his head. “He’d better hope Dooku goes through another apprentice before then.”

“Vos?” Cody asks curiously, because he’s the only apprentice Dooku’s picked up since Ventress.

Rex is looking far too amused for it to be something serious. “Apparently Bly and his general ended up sharing a tent for a week on their last deployment. Bly somehow ended up with one of her headwraps in his kit, and when the rest of the 327th found out…” He shrugs, a smirk curling his mouth.

Cody can't help but laugh. “How big’s the betting pool?”

“How big’s the 327th?” Ponds counters, and starts stripping out of his bridge uniform.

“Like Bly would ever unbend enough for something like that,” Cody says dryly, because Bly's a brother, but he’s also one of the most careful bastards Cody's ever met. He makes Ponds look downright reckless in comparison.

Ponds snorts. “General Secura’s a hell of a fighter, though,” he says. “You see her carve her way through a droid army once and you're halfway in love by the time she reaches the other side.”

“There’s a reason she got the 327th,” Rex points out, dumping his kit on his bed and immediately pulling out a datapad Cody _knows_ is full of trashy holos. “They’re some of the best.”

The _they’ll make it until we get there_ goes unsaid, but Cody can hear it hanging in the air anyway.

“About time Bly has to buy the drinks next time we go out,” Ponds says, and pulls on a sleeping shirt. “He’s always bailing us out. I don’t mind finally getting to return the favor.” He glances from Cody to Rex, then asks, “Lights out?”

“Sure,” Rex says, and stretches out with a sigh. “Appo’s got the night shift, so I'm good.” He casts a look at Cody across the room, and his expression flickers with a touch of concern. “Vod?”

Cody opens his mouth to tell him he’s fine, then pauses. The ship’s settling in for the night, everything’s been dealt with as much as it can be, and—

He’s got an answer to deliver.

“I need to ask the general something, sorry,” he says. “Just remembered.” He gets to his feet, hesitates for a moment over his helmet, and then leaves it where it is. “Ponds, where’s Windu's office?”

There's a pause, and Ponds snorts. “Thought you meant _your_ general,” he says, with a touch of humor. “B block, left hand side, room 48. Everything all right?”

“Fine,” Cody says, and mostly manages to keep the sardonic note out of it. Kind of wants to say _who wants to walk me down the aisle?_ , but manages to restrain himself. “Night.”

“Night,” Rex echoes, faintly suspicious, but he doesn’t stop Cody from slipping out of the room, into the quiet corridors. There are a few crewmen, a handful of clones, but they don’t do more than nod at Cody as he passes, and Cody keeps his pace quick, his steps measured as he heads for Mace's office.

He’s going to say yes, and maybe he’ll regret it in the future, but for right now, he can't even dredge up any hesitation. Maybe it’s the deployment, or maybe it’s thinking of all the brothers on the front lines right now, who could die tomorrow without ever being men in the eyes of the Republic. Or maybe it’s just the meeting earlier, and the memory of how Mace approached him. No misdirections, no hedging, with every avenue left open in case Cody wanted to back out immediately. The facts of the matter, nothing else, and—Cody appreciates that. Appreciates that it wasn’t anything close to an order, and he was given space to make his own decision, even if the emergency cut it short.

When he comes to a stop in front of the general’s office, his heartbeat is steady. There’s no pause as he lifts a hand to knock lightly on the durasteel.

“Come in,” a voice calls from within, and Cody punches the button, then steps in and lets it his shut behind him.

“General,” he says.

Mace looks away from a holoprojection of the Ord Radama system. It’s an odd image of it, and it takes Cody a second to work out that it’s not centered on the planet they're going to be retaking, but on another section of the system, the edge of the Radama Void and a spread of reddish light beyond it.

Before Cody can ask, though, Mace is drawing himself up, calm and settled, and folding his hands behind himself. “Commander Cody,” he returns. “What can I do for you?”

Cody opens his mouth, pauses. Smiles a little wryly, and asks, “Got a privacy setting in here?”

Mace's gaze flickers from him to the door, and one of the buttons depresses by itself. The door light blinks from green to red, and Mace nods. “Now I do,” he says, and studies Cody for a moment. “Is this about the mission?” he asks.

Not reading his mind, then. That’s at least a relief. “No, sir,” Cody says evenly. “It’s about what we discussed back at the temple. You didn’t want to discuss it over comms, but I assumed in person was fine.”

“Of course,” Mace agrees, and his gaze has sharpened slightly, but he hasn’t moved. “I trust every clone on this ship, Commander.”

Cody hesitates, then takes a breath. The decision was easy; the words are hard. “You're sure it will work?” he asks quietly. “The Senate won't just overturn it because we’re their property?”

Mace's mouth firms, expression darkening. “The Republic doesn’t condone slavery,” he says. “If they try to go down that route, I assure you, it won't be an easy one for them.”

Because Mace will fight to see the clones free. That’s a hell of a lot more than most people are willing to do, and Cody lets out a slow, careful breath. Kind or not, he thinks, that counts for a kriffing hell of a lot.

“Then I’ll do it,” he says simply, and has the pleasure of actually seeing Mace caught off guard for a moment. “I’ll marry you, sir. To free the clones.”

There’s a pause, and then Mace smiles, just faintly. “I think,” he says, “that if that’s the case, you're more entitled than anyone to call me Mace.”

This is going to be a hell of a learning curve, Cody thinks, but he takes a breath and nods. “Mace,” he says, and then, wry, “This where I say _I do_?”

“Not quite,” Mace says dryly. Pauses for another moment, and then meets Cody's eyes. “Thank you,” he says.

“I'm the one who should be saying that,” Cody says, honest enough that it’s hard to get out. “If you think this will work, I'm game.”

Mace looks steady, certain, but there’s a slant to his expression that looks like warmth, maybe, if Cody squints. “Good,” he says. “I hope you weren’t expecting a society wedding, Commander. I'm short on time at the moment, but I can offer you a deck with a nice view.”

Cody snorts, but nods. “Ready when you are,” he says, and tries not to think of anything but the ways this could go right.

There are a lot of ways. And if there are even more ways it could go wrong—well. The universe probably owes Cody some good luck at this point. He’s going to try his best to focus on that.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't tend to go into fics with more than a vague idea of where I want to take them eventually, so tags are subject to change and it's probably best to keep an eye on them. Common triggers, if they appear, _will_ be warned for in chapter notes, and I'll try to remember to warn about any upgrades to the rating, but if there are characters/tropes you dislike, I'd advise you to check the tags for changes.

The full outline of what Mace and Plo are planning is…comprehensive. From a staged love match with a clone to using a Sith Lord to spread information that will directly undermine the GAR, and Cody wants to say he’s surprised, but—

Well. For a Jedi plan, in his experience, it’s actually pretty solid and reasonable.

When he says as much, Mace gives him a look that’s faintly pained, and says, “Obi-Wan takes after his master far too much. _And_ his padawan.”

Cody privately thinks that Anakin's picked up a lot of bad habits from Obi-Wan, too, but keeps his mouth shut. If Mace wants to think that it only goes one way, he’s welcome to the misconception.

“You're all right playing…this?” Cody asks, finally shutting down the datapad when he’s gotten as much information on the plan as he probably needs. It’s nice to _have_ a plan, honestly; he hadn’t quite thought that Mace was kicking this all off without any idea of where to go except straight to pissing off the Senate, but…he hadn’t _not_ thought that. From what he’s seen, even the most carefully controlled Jedi work on impulse and instinct.

Obi-Wan says that’s how the Force speaks to them. Cody's pretty sure that at least _half_ the time it’s just the generals being reckless.

Mace raises a brow, politely confused. “This?” he echoes.

It’s _still_ hard to find the words, even with several hours crammed into a small room with Mace. Cody grimaces, waving a hand between them, and clarifies, “Being…in love. Weddings need witnesses, right? Even if we’re just doing it on a deck of the ship somewhere. And that means people watching. People we don’t want to have figure out it’s all for show.”

For a moment, Mace is silent, considering. “Jedi go undercover frequently,” he says at length. “I can't promise to be the most…expressive partner, but small gestures will mean more than large ones, coming from the two of us.”

Which doesn’t make the small gestures any easier, but at least Cody won't have to push himself too hard. He nods, faintly relieved, and considers for a second. “Once the news breaks, it’s going to be _everywhere_ by the end of the cycle,” he says, maybe a little aggrieved.

Mace snorts, amused. “A plus. We can keep things small, and it will only make more people talk.”

Because gossip on a ship runs faster than any comm transmission in the known galaxy, and the more “secret” the news, the faster it spreads. Cody huffs a chuckle, sinking back in his chair, and rolls his shoulders to get rid of the tension that’s built up from hunching over documents. Thinks _this might even work_ , and is mildly astonished by it. “Eloping probably won't have the same impact, huh,” he says ruefully.

From this close, the humor is easy to read in Mace's dark eyes. “Unless holonet reporters crashed the event,” he confirms. “And I don’t think we want that.”

“I reserve the right to shoot journalists on sight,” Cody mutters, remembering his last run-in with the type. Asking him about losses and how he felt about the Sep cause right off the battlefield had made him want to introduce those asking to the butt of his blaster. He’d refrained, but it had been a near thing at some points.

“Luckily,” Mace says, one brow lifting faintly, like that will hide the curl of his mouth, “we can avoid journalists entirely and simply get married here.”

“With only the gossip mill as witness,” Cody agrees with a sigh. Which brings up the question of _real_ witnesses, and the fact that he’s going to have to ask someone to stand with him. And— “Are rings a tradition with Jedi?”

Mace pauses, surprised, and his expression slips into something amused and exasperated in equal measure. “ _Marriage_ isn't a tradition with Jedi,” he reminds Cody.

“Or with clones,” Cody says, and rubs his hands over his face. This is going to be fun. Neither of them come from cultures where people get married, traditionally. Everything they do they're going to have to figure out one step at a time, with no customs to help them. He knows a lot of human and near-humans have kept the custom of exchanging rings, but—neither Jedi nor clones tend to have possessions, and when they do, it’s always practical things. Meant for fighting, more often than not. Rings don’t usually factor into that.

“Would you like rings?” Mace asks, even, curious. He’s watching Cody, and Cody can't quite bring himself to meet his eyes.

“I have no idea,” he says, rueful, and it makes Mace's expression shade towards amused agreement. “Guess it’s a moot point, out here.”

“Yes,” Mace agrees. “Something to consider at a later time.”

Practical. Everything about this plan’s been practical, so far, even if the trappings of it are patently ridiculous. Cody will admit to a bit of relief about that, too. Mentally, he marks the conversation as something to revisit later and sets it aside, then asks, “How many witnesses are required?”

“One for each of us,” Mace says, and then pauses. Considers for a long moment, and says, “Were we in a convenient place, or with other battalions, I would ask Depa to stand with me, but I would rather not do any part of this over comm. We can wait, if you would prefer, until we’re near other people, but—”

“Now is probably better,” Cody says. Considers who he could ask to stand, and—it’s pretty much down to Obi-Wan, Rex, and Ponds. Anakin is out for obvious reasons, and Ahsoka would tell Anakin immediately, which Cody isn't prepared to deal with. The only other options would be Bly or Gree, and both of them are on the front right now. Not convenient, so plans have to be adjusted to what’s available.

“I think we’ve lost all the romance already, if we’re talking about this like we’re arranging a battle,” Cody says, amused at himself. Mace snorts quietly, sitting back and crossing his legs, and watches Cody for a moment.

“We’ll be expected to share quarters afterwards,” he says. “If the Senate decides to investigate whether our marriage is real or a sham, I don’t want them to have any room to cast doubts.”

Cody was thinking that, too. And—it’s unnerving, potentially, but Cody's bedded down with plenty of brothers in worse conditions. Sharing a nicer bed someplace where they're probably not about to get shelled isn't going to be a hardship. “I’ll probably kick if you steal the covers, but I don’t snore, if that’s what you're worried about.”

“It was indeed my greatest concern, yes.” Mace pauses, and then says, “I'm going to ask Ponds to stand as my witness.”

Well, that cuts down Cody's choices even more. Not that he minds; it will make choosing easier. “Not General Kenobi?” he asks, curious despite himself. He’s heard that Obi-Wan’s old master was a good friend to Mace, and he knows Mace and Obi-Wan have more than a passing acquaintance. Maybe friends, even, but he’s never asked directly.

Mace grimaces. “If I ask Obi-Wan, he either won't believe me, or he’ll believe I'm possessed,” he says. Cody squints at him, but—he can't tell if that’s a joke or not. It probably is. Maybe. “However, if you wish to have him as your witness, he might take it better.”

Cody thinks of telling Obi-Wan that he’s getting married. Thinks of Obi-Wan showing up and finding Mace on the other side of this, and the inevitable reaction. Disbelief is likely, and probably several wounded questions. Or a lightsaber held somewhere vulnerable while he tries to work out whether they're being controlled by something.

…So maybe it wasn’t a joke, then.

“No,” he says with all the dignity he can muster, which isn't much when he’s talking about sneaking around behind his general’s back to marry another general, and let his general find out it’s happened from the grapevine. Preferably well after it’s happened. Cody winces. “I—no. I’ll pick Rex, probably. For my witness.”

Mace accepts that without comment, inclining his head. “I have the appropriate forms with me,” he says, and Cody isn't surprised in the least. “Admiral Kilian is authorized to perform the ceremony aboard-ship, unless you would like to find someone else on-planet when we’ve recaptured Ord Radama.”

“The admiral is fine.” He’ll probably be skeptical, but he’s an old spacer; Cody's sure he’s seen more than his share of last-minute marriages and the like, even if not between a Jedi and a clone. It’s probably better not to leave this whole thing to the chance of them managing to recapture the planet, regardless. Cody wants it squared away well before then.

There's a pause, and when Cody glances at Mace, there’s an amused slant to his mouth. At Cody's raised brow, Mace says, “I was going to ask when you were off so we could schedule the ceremony between our shifts, but…perhaps that’s too practical.”

It’s enough to make Cody laugh, even so. “Well, scheduling it _during_ our shifts would definitely start the rumors off,” he says. “Both of us missing work? General Kenobi would _really_ think we were possessed.”

Humor deepens the lines in Mace's face, makes his whole expression warmer. He’s not smiling, quite, but Cody thinks it’s equivalent. “I would rather avoid that if at all possible,” he says dryly. “After our shifts, then.”

Cody tries to remember the duty roster he just drew up. That puts him off in the early evening. “Before the evening meal?” he suggests.

“We can celebrate with mess rations,” Mace agrees gravely, and Cody snorts. Maybe, he thinks, this won't be too bad.

Then he remembers that he still has to ask Rex, and _tell him_ , and wants to groan.

“Sure you don’t want to ask General Skywalker to stand with you?” he asks, mostly to distract himself. “Just for his face when you do.”

For a moment, Mace almost looks tempted. “You enjoy tormenting Anakin that much?” he asks, arching a brow at Cody, but Cody can see the amusement he’s trying to hide.

“After some of the stunts he’s pulled on me and Rex? Absolutely,” Cody says without remorse, and actually gets a flash of a real smile.

“I was hoping we’d get along, and now I know we will,” Mace says, amused, and it abruptly occurs to Cody that this is just as much uncertain territory for Mace as it is for him.

The revelation takes a moment to settle, and Cody has to swallow, then glances up.

Mace's eyes are on the holoprojector, though, distracted and cautious, and Cody looks too. He can't see anything but the edge of some kind of interstellar cloud beyond the darkness of the Radama Void, and after a moment he asks, “Is that something we’re going to have to worry about in addition to Grievous?”

Mace's gaze flickers back to him, like he’s been startled out of thought, but he reaches for the holoprojector. A tap at the controls shifts the view, and suddenly all Cody can see is an endless nebula of dully glowing red, stretching out like a vast wall beyond the edge of the system.

“It’s called the Stygian Caldera,” Mace says. “A nebula that acts as a hyperspatial breakwater, difficult to navigate under the best of circumstances.” A pause, careful, and he says, “I don’t like staging such a large-scale attack so close to it.”

“Another reason to get married quickly?” Cody asks, almost a joke even if he can't quite manage to make it land right.

Thankfully, Mace snorts. “Certainly enough of one,” he agrees, and a flick of his fingers turns the projector off entirely. “Get some rest, Cody. I’ll find you after shift tomorrow.”

Weird, to hear Mace calling him by his chosen name. Still, Cody supposes he’s going to have plenty of time to get used to it. “You as well,” he says, and follows Mace to his feet. Pauses, unsure what he can possibly say, and finally settles on, “Any spare dress uniforms on board?”

“I’ll have one sent to your quarters,” Mace agrees. “We should have your size.”

Cody snorts, because if they don’t, there's a problem. “One size really does fit all,” he agrees, droll, and steps back. “Good night, Mace.”

“Good night, Cody.” Another twitch of Mace's hand has the privacy lock disengaging, and Cody slips out into the hall, letting the door slide shut behind him as he stands there.

Thinks, bemused and more than a little disbelieving, _I'm getting married tomorrow_.

It’s not something he’s ever really imagined, even in nebulous _after the war_ contemplations. And—he especially never factored High General Jedi Master Mace Windu into things.

Cody's pretty decent at rolling with the punches, though. And with freedom on the other side of this one, he’ll make it through.

When he slips back into Ponds’s quarters, boots silent on the deck plating, Ponds is asleep, but the light of a holovid is shows Rex is still awake. As Cody sits down to pull his boots off, Rex rolls up onto one elbow and gives him a pointed look.

“Out late, vod,” he says neutrally.

The invitation to talk is clear, but Cody just as clearly ignores it. “Got caught up talking,” he says, and strips off his armor with the ease of too much practice, settling it in the footlocker.

“To _General Windu_?” Rex's brows almost touch his bleached-blond hair. “He talks? For _fun_?”

From the far bed, Ponds makes a grumpy sound and rolls over. “Frack off,” he mutters, and a moment later his uniform jacket flies across the room to hit Rex. “That’s my general you're talking about, vod.”

“I think it’s a reasonable question,” Rex retorts, and balls it up to throw it back.

Cody rolls his eyes at both of them, sliding into bed and pulling the covers up. “Keep your Force-awful holos quiet,” he tells Rex. “Some of us don’t care that her twin came back from the dead to ruin her marriage.”

“That was last season,” Rex says, smirking. “I can give you a rundown of this season, vod, seeing as you remember the highlights—”

“I’ll throw something at you, too,” Cody informs him. “And I'm not as nice as Ponds.”

Rex scoffs, but doesn’t argue. Instead, he flops back into his bed and says, “They're entertaining.”

Cody puts all of his deep, _deep_ skepticism into a disbelieving hum and closes his eyes.

Cody wonders, a little desperately, if he can just tell Rex where to show up and when and leave it at that, cutting out the truly painful explanation that will inevitably follow anything more complicated. It’s tempting to try, honestly, and he considers the potential fallout as he picks at his breakfast and tries not to miss the handful of real meals he managed to snag on Coruscant before they were called away.

Across the table, Rex is watching him, looking torn between amusement and concern. “You know,” he says, “if you keep brushing me off and telling me you're fine, eventually I'm going to go to Obi-Wan.”

Cody pauses, then levels a look at his friend. “Obi-Wan?” he repeats, raising a pointed brow.

The very tips of Rex's ears turn red, no matter how hard he tries to keep his expression even. “He got annoyed at being called general all the time. And he’s not _technically_ my commander.”

“Of course,” Cody says, amused. He takes another bite, then clears his throat. They’ve got their own table in the mess, and there aren’t any brothers close enough to overhear unless they're actively trying to eavesdrop—and, besides that, it’s not a secret anymore, so he steels himself and says, “I _am_ fine. I'm just trying to figure out how to ask you for a favor.”

And up go the brows again. “A favor?” Rex echoes. “What, you need someone to take a shift terrifying the shinies?”

“Like I’d need help with that,” Cody retorts. Grimaces faintly, and says, “No. It’s…personal.”

“Personal. _You_ want a personal favor.” Rex grins at him. “I never thought I’d see the day.”

Cody kicks him under the table, aiming for a kneecap, and feels vindicated when Rex jolts and swears at him. “Yes or no, vod. If you don’t want to do it, I’ll ask Waxer.” Waxer’s a romantic; he’ll be charmed by the whole idea. _And_ Cody can order him to shut his mouth if he’s going to make a smart comment. Maybe Waxer’s actually the better choice.

Like he can see Cody's decision shifting, Rex quickly raises his hands. “If you want a favor, you’ve got it. But if it’s something humiliating I’m going to make you regret it.”

“You’d _try_ ,” Cody retorts, but breathes out, scrubs a hand over his face, and warns, “Don’t make a scene, all right?”

Rex stares at him for a moment, mildly perturbed. “Cody?” he asks warily.

“ _No scenes_ ,” Cody repeats, more forcefully, and then says, quick, like ripping a bacta patch off, “I'm getting married and I need you to be my witness.”

“ _What_ ,” Rex says, about three times his normal volume. Cody gives him a dirty look, and he snaps his mouth shut, disbelief spreading across his face. “ _Married_?” he hisses, more quietly. “What the hell, vod? When? To _who_? You didn’t even tell me you were seeing someone.”

“It’s been going on for a while,” Cody says, a lie, but—better than Rex knowing this has been on the table for barely three days and Cody only agreed less than twelve hours ago. “We didn’t want anyone to know. But—tonight. After shift.”

For a long moment, Rex just stares at him. “Tonight,” he repeats. “I get twelve hours’ notice that you're getting _married_.”

Cody does the math, just to be a jerk. “Less than nine,” he corrects, and Rex throws his napkin at his head in annoyance. Cody catches it before it can drop into his caf.

“The only wedding gift you're getting is a kick in the ass,” he says. “And you still haven’t told me who.”

“I know.” Cody snorts at his glare, and says, “You're going to have to turn up if you want to know.” Better than telling him it’s Mace in the middle of the mess, after his reaction to the news Cody's getting married at all.

“You tell Obi-Wan yet?” Rex asks, wary. “I know you're a tightlipped idiot, but—”

“I’ll tell him.” Eventually. After the paperwork’s filed. Maybe with at least one transparisteel wall between them.

Rex's raised brow says he can read what Cody isn't saying perfectly well. “Vod, he’s your _general_.”

“And this is for _me_ ,” Cody counters, which—truth. Surprisingly, entirely truthful. “Just—I’ll share it on my own terms, all right?”

“This is going to go over _badly_ ,” Rex warns, but there’s something sympathetic in his eyes. “Where?”

“B-Deck observation room,” Cody says, relieved that Rex isn't going to push any further. “It’s nothing fancy.”

“It had better not be. I left all my dress duds back on Coruscant.” Rex eyes him for another long moment, then says quietly, “Glad you found something for yourself, Cody.”

Cody breathes in, breathes out. Freedom, he thinks. That’s what he’s found. “Yeah, me too.”

There's a moment of silence as he picks a few more bites out, and then Rex frowns. “Wait,” he says. “Is this even _legal_? _Can_ you get married?”

Cody rolls his eyes. “Yeah, because I’d go out of my way to ask you to witness my _illegal_ marriage,” he says, unimpressed.

Rex throws his fork at him. Cody catches it, and then he keeps it, because he’s not above playing dirty when it’s an option. He’s actually kind of looking forward to seeing Rex's face when Mace walks into the observation room, but that’s probably just retribution for all the longing glances Rex and Obi-Wan have made him suffer through these last few months.

Or Cody's an asshole. It’s always so hard to tell.

“Grievous has blockaded the planet, but hasn’t managed to do more than siege the main city,” Aayla says, grimly satisfied. “Our starfighters have been able to keep him from advancing further, and Loyalists on the planet have been harrying him from the swamps. His hold is tentative right now.”

“Not nearly the crushing defeat he thought,” Commander Bly agrees. The holos flicker for a moment, then steady, and he glances back over his shoulder at something beyond the range of the projectors. “There’s some heavy interference here, but it’s kept Grievous from picking up our fighters until it's too late for him.”

Mace frowns, not liking that, even if it’s useful in the short term. “Don’t let him push you back any further,” he says.

“We won't,” Aayla says, and manages a crooked smile. “I have no plans to encroach on the Caldera, Master.”

“For the better,” Obi-Wan murmurs, stroking his beard absently. “It’s supposedly beastly to navigate, all other problems aside. I’d trust your pilots over droids to get you through it, but I’d just as soon not risk anyone without dire need.”

Aayla nods. “We have other escape routes planned,” she says, “should it come to that. Grievous seems occupied trying to subdue the planet, however, and his ships are maintaining their blockade. We should be fine until you arrive, Masters.”

“The _Endurance_ and her fleet should be enough to break the blockade,” Anakin puts in, frowning at the map. “Then Master Windu and I will land our troops near the capital and see if we can't make Grievous turn tail.”

“Our priority will be to recapture the ordinance depots outside the city,” Mace says, slightly reproving. “Capturing Grievous would be an important win, but maintaining our hold in the Outer Rim is even more pressing.”

“And Force knows he’s never attempted to stick around after a battle started to go badly for him,” Obi-Wan says bitterly. The ripple of his distaste is loud in the Force.

“Nothing says we can't do both,” Anakin says stubbornly. “Aayla, will the 327th be close enough to assist in the ground invasion?”

“Of course.” The flash of Aayla’s smile is all white teeth. “I will leave the cruisers to the admirals and assist you myself.”

Mace feels a flicker of amusement; it’s always hard to tell Aayla was Quinlan’s padawan, right up until it isn't. “Very well,” he says. “You and Skywalker will concentrate on the capital and Grievous’s main force. Obi-Wan and I will focus our attacks on the droids at the depots. Aayla, keep us apprised of troop movements and any changes in Grievous’s tactics.”

“Of course, Masters.” Aayla inclines her head, and Mace nods in return, pulling back as his comm beeps with a message from command. Ponds, at his shoulder, murmurs something quick in Mando’a to Bly, getting a quiet reply, and then follows Mace down towards the hangars to oversee the readying of transports.

“Unless Grievous gets reinforcements, we should be able to break his hold quickly,” Ponds says after a moment, scanning through the rough maps they’ve drawn up.

“Presumably,” Mace says, checking the message. It’s the admiral in charge of the _Negotiator_ , with news that the engine they were having trouble with is fixed and the cruiser’s now at full speed, and he lets himself have a breath of relief. The message will have gone to tactical, too, so he doesn’t pause. Glances sidelong at his commander, and then deliberately folds his hands in the small of his back. “Ponds, I have a question for you, and I would like you to answer it freely, without consideration of rank.”

Ponds blinks, but to his credit he doesn’t even hesitate. “Of course, sir.”

Mace weighs the phrasing for a moment, and then asks, “Would you consider us friends, beyond our service together?”

“Yes, sir,” Ponds answers, and there's no hesitation there, either. His smile is a little wry, but warm, too. “You’ve saved my life enough times that I think it counts, ranks aside.”

“Good.” Mace lets out a breath, then says carefully, “I would say the same. And, as a friend, I would like to ask you to stand with me for a marriage ceremony today.”

Ponds comes to a sharp halt in the middle of the corridor. “ _Sir_?” he manages.

Mace stops, too, turning to raise a brow at him. Doesn’t repeat himself, but waits patiently.

It takes Ponds a second to sort out his thoughts. “I didn’t think Jedi _could_ get married,” he finally offers, cautious.

“They don’t, generally,” Mace allows, “but that doesn’t tend to be the same as _can't_.”

Ponds accepts that, turns it over for a moment. “Is it someone I know?” he asks.

“Cody,” Mace answers without flinching, watching Ponds’s reaction. There's a quick frown that’s smoothed away behind a neutral expression, but nothing more, and after a second Ponds simply nods.

“I’d be honored,” he says simply. “Today?”

“After shift,” Mace confirms. “We were hoping to do it while on Coruscant, but—”

“But,” Ponds agrees, entirely familiar with such changes of plans, and smiles. “Well, even if it’s not the way you were intending, congratulations.”

“Thank you,” Mace says, a little bemused. He does wonder what Ponds’s reaction would be if he knew the reason behind it, but—they can learn his reaction to getting dragged sideways into citizenship later.

There’s a pause as Ponds regards him, then a breath. “Do you have rings, sir?” Ponds asks. “Razor’s not half-bad at making jewelry, long as he’s got some wire and a soldering torch. He’s off until tonight, too.”

Cody had asked about rings. Hadn’t known if he wanted them, but—that he’d thought of them at all, when Mace hadn’t even recalled their significance, likely means having them wouldn’t be entirely inappropriate. “If you think he’d be willing,” he says. “That’s far more than I expected from this.”

Ponds’s smile is crooked. “Can't go into it with low expectations,” he says. “You're a high general. I’ll get Razor some wire and ask him personally.”

“Thank you,” Mace says quietly, and Ponds’s smile smooths out into something brighter.

“What are friends for?” he asks, quietly pleased, and then turns and disappears down the hallway, back towards Lightning Squadron’s quarters.


	6. Chapter 6

“Master Windu, do you have a moment?” Anakin calls.

Three steps outside the briefing room, Mace pauses. Wants to say _no_ , because the shift is over and he has places to be, but he still stops regardless.

“Master, wait,” Ahsoka complains, scrambling to catch up as Anakin ducks out into the corridor. “I told you it was _fine_ , I was just worried—”

“It’s fine, Snips. If Master Windu doesn’t know, he can at least tell us who to ask.” Anakin's smile is the one that tries for charming, and it makes Mace raise a brow at him, braced for practically anything. “Sorry, Master Windu, do you know anything about Master Ti? Obi-Wan asked Ahsoka to relay a message to her on Coruscant, but she can't get through to her.”

Ahsoka pulls a face, but she doesn’t protest. “Master Ti’s never away from her comm for this long,” she says in explanation.

A less complicated question than Mace was expecting, and he nods once and starts moving again. “Master Ti departed for Kamino immediately after her report to the Council,” he says. “She’s likely still traveling. I can provide you with the frequency for her ship, if you would like.”

“Yes, please,” Ahsoka says, expression brightening. “Thank you, Master Windu. When she wouldn’t answer…”

She trails off, but Mace doesn’t need her to finish. They’ve had run-ins with assassins before, and as the Jedi overseeing all the training of the new clones, Shaak is a high-value target. “She and Commander Colt should arrive on Kamino before we reach Ord Radama. If your need is someone on Coruscant, however, Master Koon should still be in residence.”

“Master Ti left quickly,” Anakin says, brow wrinkling. “Master Obi-Wan said she’d just arrived when she gave her report. Is everything all right?”

Mace pauses, weighing his responses. The idea that the clones could be altered in such a way as to be mentally adjusted is unnerving, and he isn't sure he wants it to be common knowledge, even among other Jedi. Not when Shaak is so vulnerable, alone on Kamino. Once Agen reaches her, she’ll at least have another Jedi to rely on, and Colt will stay with her, but—

Kamino is large, and there are many, many ways it could go badly if someone wanted to do her harm, regardless of her skill.

“The Kaminoans are being unforthcoming in regards to the specifics of the alterations they’ve made to the clones,” he finally settles on. Glances up to check the door numbers, and wonders how he can end this conversation before he reaches B-Deck. “Shaak has been asking questions, but receiving very few answers.”

He catches the look Ahsoka and Anakin trade, sees the worry in their faces. “Fives said—” Ahsoka starts, and then closes her mouth, frowning.

“Fives?” Mace asks, glancing between them.

“One of the survivors of the attack on the Rishi moon base,” Anakin says after a moment. “He’s part of the 501st now. When he was telling us about his training, he said Master Ti intervened personally to keep his whole squad from being terminated.”

There’s a tightness in his voice that Mace sympathizes with, and he lets out a slow breath. “Commander Colt implied she’s had to do the same thing multiple times,” he says quietly. “Master Kolar is on his way to Kamino as well, to provide her with assistance. Between them, with a stronger Jedi presence, I hope that there will be less need for intervention.”

“Agen Kolar?” Anakin asks, surprised. “The Form IV master?”

“The one who threatened to fight a whole mob singlehandedly?” Ahsoka adds, smirking.

“Agen is uninterested in diplomacy,” Mace says, and tries not to let the remembered exasperation bleed through. “Especially when faced with treachery to the Order.”

Anakin pulls a face, resting a hand on his lightsaber. “Master Obi-Wan said Vos was one of his friends,” he says grimly. “How did he end up working for _Dooku_?”

 _Bravery_ , Mace thinks, and then firmly sets it aside. Quinlan going undercover as one of Dooku’s Dark Adepts is a risk, but the potential reward of the mission is too great not to attempt it.

“There are many Jedi,” he says, “who walk a line very close to the Dark Side. I am one of them. Quinlan is another. We take care, but—sometimes a single step can start you on a path that ends far away from the light.”

“That’s what Vaapad is, right?” Ahsoka asks curiously. “Only some Jedi can use it for that reason.”

Mace pauses, debating his words. “Vaapad is a philosophy,” he finally says. “It is passage through your darkest instincts and back into the light of compassion, and it requires a certain acceptance of the darkness within. The use of it, and an enjoyment of physical battle and victory, tempered by the peace that follows. It is the meeting of light and dark, and the user’s balance between the two.”

“I thought all Jedi were supposed to reject the Dark Side,” Anakin says, and his gaze is heavy, the curl of his vast presence abrasive. Mace glances over to meet his gaze, and holds it for a moment as he folds his hands into his sleeves.

“Acknowledging the existence of a thing is not giving oneself over to it,” Mace says bluntly. Remembers Depa in the jungles of Haruun Kal, swallowed by the form, consumed. Breathes through the memory of his home planet, his former padawan, the darkness there, and says, “I know my place in the Force, and which tenants of it I serve. Through Vaapad, I can see what lines can be crossed and which cannot.”

He would have let Depa strike him down, rather than fall. Would have let his daughter in all but blood kill him, and then move on to any others in her path, rather than fully surrender to the Dark Side and risk corruption. Mace knows his place, and his path. Knows what he would do to maintain it, too, and what he would sacrifice.

Everything, in the end.

“Does Vos know Vaapad, then?” Anakin asks after a moment, looking away.

“I suspect he does,” Mace confirms. “Sora Bulq, who helped me create the form, is also in Dooku’s employ. He taught Quinlan Vaapad once, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d taken advantage of their proximity to finish his instruction.” An edge of anger slides through him, not yet aged enough to lose its sharpness. Sora was always volatile, but—Vaapad consumed him as well, in the end.

“Kriff,” Anakin mutters. “Does _everyone_ who uses it go Dark Side?” With a hiss, Ahsoka elbows him pointedly, and he seems to realize what he just asked and winces. “No offense, Master Windu.”

Mace just snorts, because he’s hardly about to take umbrage from the truth. Practically everyone who uses it does, at some point. “A similar style, Juyo, has long been favored by Sith,” he says, and Anakin can't quite hide his shock. “I believe Maul was a practitioner. Maintaining a hold on the light can be difficult if you allow the form to master you, rather than mastering it.”

“Oh,” Anakin says, and frowns. He flicks a glance ahead of them, just as steps approach, and Mace turns to see Razor approaching.

“Generals, Commander,” Razor says, giving them a quick salute before he stops in front of Mace. “Sir, Ponds told me, and—they're a little rough, since I didn’t have much time and all I could get my hands on was some scrap wiring, but…” He offers up a hand, a flash of gold on his palm.

Mace would rather do this anywhere rather than in front of Anakin and Ahsoka, but—he pauses, and then very carefully picks the rings up from Razor’s palm. They're braided, pressed almost flat, with no edges that can catch a blaster trigger or snag on gloves. Roughly polished, rather than bright, but certainly not utilitarian.

“You're very skilled, Sergeant,” Mace says, admiring the two different shades of wire that form the central braid. “These are quite impressive, especially given the lack of warning.”

Razor grins, bright. “Thank you, sir. Next time, though, give me at least a week, please.”

Mace snorts. “I don’t believe there will be a next time,” he says dryly, “but I’ll make a note.”

“That’s a good thing, right?” Razor looks deeply pleased. “Congratulations, sir. From all of Lightning Squadron.”

“Thank you, Razor,” Mace says, and curls his fingers over the rings. He’ll have to pick up a gift for Razor in thanks, next time he has the opportunity.

“Enjoy, sir.” Razor gives him a cheeky smile and ducks past, hurrying on up the corridor. Late for his shift, Mace realizes, catching a flicker of concern from the trooper, and wants to smile. Late because he wanted to deliver the rings in person, and he only just finished them. Mace will have to make sure Commander Neyo knows not to reprimand him for that.

“What are those?” Anakin asks, from too close. He leans around Mace, squinting at his hand. “Were those _rings_?”

“They looked like rings,” Ahsoka agrees, curious, and ducks around Mace’s other side to try and catch a glimpse. Mace keeps his fingers closed, and very deliberately folds his hands back into his sleeves, face impassive. The flicker of a matched pout on Ahsoka and Anakin’s faces is deeply amusing, but Mace doesn’t give anything away.

“If you’ll excuse me, Anakin, Ahsoka, I have an engagement I have to keep in the observation room,” Mace says, and steps out from between them.

Anakin chokes. “Wh— _engagement_?” he repeats, but instead of being shocked still, as Mace had hoped, there are instantly steps following in Mace’s wake. “I—hey, we were just going that way, too, weren’t we, Snips?”

“For—for meditation!” Ahsoka agrees, because she’s just as bad as her master when there's a secret she can stick her nose into. “We were going to meditate while looking at the stars. Through closed eyes. Totally.”

Mace rolls his eyes, and debates the logistics of locking the door in their faces. The _Endurance_ is his flagship, and he has the main override code. It’s just a matter of keeping them outside. And hoping they don’t cut through the door. Or get Obi-Wan.

“ _Meditation_?” Anakin hisses at his padawan, probably under the impression that Mace can’t hear him with all of five feet in between them. “Really, Snips?”

“I didn’t hear you coming up with anything better, Master,” Ahsoka hisses back.

One hard Force push would send them sailing down the corridor, Mace reflects. It would give him ample time to escape, except they already know his destination. That was a miscalculation, clearly.

Then again, this is not technically a secret. The whole point it to make it known as soon as the marriage is official, and while Mace would much rather wait until after Obi-Wan is safely on his own ship before he finds out Mace married his commander, he’s fairly confident that Obi-Wan is discrete enough to wait until there are fewer witnesses to assassinate him.

Of course, the same doesn’t go for Anakin, but Mace can probably keep him pinned with the Force long enough for them to finish their vows, should he try to interfere.

“I hope my business won’t interrupt your meditation, then,” he says, desert-dry, and pretends not to hear Ahsoka’s victorious sound and Anakin’s huff of indignation. They keep on his heels as he approaches the observation room, where a familiar figure is just opening the door.

“Sir,” Ponds says, and his gaze flickers to Anakin and Ahsoka. He pauses, looking like he’s debating physically blocking their path, but Mace raises a discrete hand to halt him.

“Ponds,” Mace returns, and doesn’t otherwise acknowledge his tag-alongs. “Is the admiral here yet?”

“On his way, sir,” Ponds reports, eyes Anakin like he’s sizing him up, and then steps aside so Mace can enter. Mace makes it through the gap just fine, but somehow Anakin has to squeeze to get between the commander and the doorframe as Ponds successfully makes himself into an immovable object.

“Oh, Rex,” Anakin says, caught between startled and suspicious. “Here for the view?”

“Favor for a friend,” Rex says, and straightens from his place leaning against the transparisteel. He nods politely to Mace, and then asks, “You here as a witness?”

“Witness?” Ahsoka asks, and sharp eyes dart from Rex to Mace and then right to Anakin, who meets her gaze with a faint, confused frown of his own. “Witness to what?”

Rex snaps his mouth shut, looking caught, and glances at Mace warily. Looks to Ponds, too, like he’s hoping for a rescue there, but Ponds is paying more attention to his datapad than his fellow trooper.

Sympathetic to his plight, Mace steps in, and asks pointedly, “Where precisely were you planning to meditate?”

Ahsoka and Anakin trade glances, and Ahsoka takes three long steps to the side and gracefully sinks down to the floor, folding her legs beneath her. “Anywhere we’ll be out of the way, Master Windu,” she says quickly, and manages to punch Anakin in the ankle and make it look almost like an accident. “Right, Master?”

“Right,” Anakin says, suspicious, and settles next to his padawan, kneeling in exactly the spot that provides no view of the stars at all. Ahsoka doesn’t seem to notice; her eyes are supposedly closed, but Mace can see her open one quickly to peek at Rex again before she shuts it again hurriedly.

Like master, like padawan, Mace thinks, and doesn’t sigh. Instead, he makes his way over to where Rex is waiting, and offers quietly, “Captain.”

“General Windu.” Rex looks from him to Ponds, and there’s something like a grin breaking over his face. “Thanks for the save, sir.”

“It’s no problem,” Mace says, amused. “Your general decided to invite himself along, I'm afraid, so it was the least I could do.”

Rex winces. “Hope Cody won't mind,” he says. “He was worried about Obi-Wan finding out.” Another quick glance at Ponds, and good humor slides back into his expression. “Can't imagine why. Obi-Wan’s going to think it’s great.”

That is…not what Mace was expecting to hear. He blinks, raising a brow, and asks, bemused, “You think he’ll approve?”

Rex hesitates, then snorts. “I wouldn’t go that far—he’s not going to think anyone’s good enough for Cody. But Ponds is—”

The hiss of the door opening cuts him off before Mace can figure out what Ponds has to do with Obi-Wan’s approval of their marriage. He looks automatically, and—

The dress uniform fits. Cody is tugging at a sleeve, frowning, but there are no rumpled lines, no places where it sits poorly. Black suits him, and Mace steps forward to meet him without pause.

“Mace,” Cody says quietly, and his gaze slides over to where Anakin and Ahsoka are both pretending very hard to meditate. One corner of his mouth curls, amusement sliding through Mace's sense of him, and he asks, “I think you picked up some ducklings.”

Mace rolls his eyes faintly. “I hope you don’t mind,” he says.

Cody shakes his head. “No plan ever survives a first encounter with the enemy. Or General Skywalker,” he says dryly. “No General Kenobi?”

“Not yet,” Mace mutters, and turns to greet Kilian as he sweeps in. “Admiral. Thank you for agreeing to this.”

“Of course, General Windu.” Kilian gives him a wry smile. “You're not the first t’ be doing this before a pitched battle, and I doubt you’ll be the last.”

Mace inclines his head, entirely willing to believe it. “Still, it’s appreciated,” he says, and glances over at Ponds as he approaches.

“Razor found you, sir?” he asks quietly, and gives Cody a polite nod.

“He did,” Mace confirms, and takes a breath. Meets Cody's eyes, seeing an equal amount of buried trepidation there, and tries for a faint smile. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” Cody says wryly, and reaches out, offering Mace his hand.

Mace made his choice the morning Plo first brought the plan to him. He takes Cody's hand, curling his fingers around Cody's and feeling the subtly different calluses from a blaster instead of a lightsaber. It occurs to him, suddenly, that he and Cody haven’t touched before. This is the first time, and it’s at their wedding.

From the way Cody's gaze flickers down to their interlocked hands, then rises to catch Mace's, he’s not the only one coming to that realization.

Then, halfway between a challenge and an inside joke, Cody smiles. Turns his hand in Mace's grip, fingers sliding down Mace's wrist to grip his forearm until their pulse-points are pressed together, and he says, “Rex, if you keep staring at me like that, your face is going to get stuck that way.”

Raising a brow, Mace looks over, and is amused to find Rex's wide eyes locked on their hands. Slowly, incredulously, his stare rises to fix on Cody's face, and he opens his mouth, closes it, and slams his eyes shut for one long, long breath.

“Vod,” he says, strangled, “I'm going to kick your karking ass from here to the Core.”

Ah. So Cody left out some vital information when he asked Rex to stand with him. Mace aims his raised brow at Cody instead, and Cody at least has the decency to wince.

“You would have made a scene,” he says, though it’s a halfhearted defense.

“Over you _marrying General Windu_?” Rex says, voice cracking. “You're damn right I would have!”

He definitely wasn’t talking about Obi-Wan approving of Mace, then. Suddenly, the last conversation makes far more sense.

Before he can say anything, though, there’s a loud yelp. “ _What_?” Anakin demands, and instantly he’s on his feet, stalking towards them with something slightly wild in his eyes. “Master Windu, what the hell is this?”

Cody sighs through his nose and closes his eyes, clearly resigned to the interruption. He doesn’t let go, though, and so Mace doesn’t try to, either. He just aims a look at Anakin that used to make even Qui-Gon Jinn hesitate, and says flatly, “A marriage ceremony.”

“But Jedi don’t get married,” Ahsoka protests, lost. “Master, why—you can't _do_ this!”

Mace raises a brow at her, deliberate. “Nothing in the Code forbids love,” he says, and sees Anakin still, something unreadable flickering across his face. “As long as a Jedi does not let their love slip into possessiveness, relationships are entirely permissible.”

“Getting married was my idea,” Cody adds unexpectedly, and Mace flicks a glance at him as he opens his eyes. His expression slants into determination, and he meets Anakin's disbelief with a raised chin. “I wanted something tangible, even if Jedi don’t normally tie the knot officially.”

“You were _seeing_ Master Windu?” Anakin asks, bewildered. “For how long? Does Obi-Wan know?”

“A while,” Ponds says, an unexpected defense. He must see the surprise on all their faces, because he shrugs and says, “General Windu's been slipping away to comm someone at strange times, and he’s disappeared the last few times we were on leave. I didn’t ask, but—you were meeting, right?”

Meeting Quinlan, Mace thinks, and very carefully doesn’t let out a breath of relief. Well. Assuming a clandestine relationship is better than assuming a spy. “Yes. I thought we’d been discrete.”

“You were.” Ponds’s smile is quick. “No one else noticed, I'm pretty sure.”

“Can we do this later?” Cody asks, and lifts his and Mace's locked arms slightly. “Please?”

“No!” Anakin splutters. “You're—this is ridiculous! Why are you getting _married_?”

Mace and Cody trade glances, and Mace raises a brow slightly. Cody rolls his eyes in response, and asks, “Why do you think most people get married, General?”

“You're on the Council, Master Windu,” Ahsoka says more quietly. “Is this really the kind of thing they’d allow?”

“Yes,” Mace says, more gently than he might if it were anyone else asking. “The Jedi Order has never forbidden marriage, as long as a Jedi can still fulfill their duty.” He glances at Cody again, and says, “Cody understands that I would sacrifice my life to save others, and prioritize innocents over him, should we be put in that situation.”

Anakin's expression twists, somewhere between incomprehension and revulsion, but he doesn’t say anything.

“And I wouldn’t want it other way,” Cody adds, pointed. “I’d do the same thing, and Mace knows it. We’re fighting a war, and we’re meant to protect other people. Each other, but—there are people depending on us, and they come first.” He shakes his head, and says more quietly, “I just wanted something for myself, General. That’s what this is about.”

Anakin doesn’t have anything to say to that, and Ahsoka looks thoughtful. When there’s no response, Cody nods like that’s decided it and turns back to Kilian. “Sorry, Admiral. We’re ready.”

Kilian casts a bemused look between them, but nods. “You come free and open t’ this marriage?” he asks.

Anyone else would probably miss the faint curl of Cody's mouth, rueful and relieved in equal measure. “Yes,” he answers.

“Yes,” Mace echoes. “And gladly.”

He means it; given what this is for, he’d pay whatever price he needed to in order to accomplish their aims. Marriage to an unobjectionable person is hardly a steep price, regardless of what it brings.

“Very gladly,” Cody agrees, amused, and his grip tightens faintly on Mace's arm. “I—didn’t prepare anything—”

“That’s all right,” Kilian says. “Any vows you’d like, I just need to hear them said.”

Cody seems to be struggling to find words, so Mace steps into the silence. He’s seen a thousand marriages as a Jedi, in a thousand different cultures, and for a moment he thinks of the Mandalorian exchange of vows, but—it’s too personal, means too much to a Mandalorian. This is a marriage built on pretense, not on _wanting_ to spend the rest of their lives together.

“Through the darkness,” he says quietly, and he can feel Cody's pulse against his own, steady and strong. “And back into the light.”

Everything is darkness, right now. Before them and behind them, nothing but shadow. The act of moving brings light, though; Mace is acting, moving to free the clone troopers, and that in itself is light. Light long-coming, but finally realized.

Cody's expression flickers, but then breaks into a smile, and he repeats, “Through the darkness, and back into the light.” There’s a weight of meaning on it for him as well, and something touched with determination. In the rushing light of hyperspace outside, the scar that curves around his eye is clear, his gaze steady but bright. Carefully, he steps forward, and Mace reads the incline of his body, leans in as well, and is only a little surprised when Cody taps their foreheads together instead of outright kissing him. A Keldabe kiss, even if they're not in armor, and Mace breathes into it, closes his eyes for a long moment before he opens them again.

Cody is watching him, a hesitation clear in his face, and Mace laces their free hands, leans in. Slow enough to cover the fact that the motion isn't practiced between them, he closes the last few inches between them, fitting their mouths together, and Cody exhales, buried surprise in the sound, before he kisses back. It’s chaste, quick—Mace hasn’t kissed anyone in a very long while, and the action is almost unfamiliar, but—

Warm. Careful. Cody kisses him like it means something, and even if it’s only for the audience, Mace feels that same warmth in his veins as they pull apart.

No _until death_ in their vows. Not in these circumstances. This will be enough.

Into the silence, Kilian clears his throat. “Then by my authority as captain of this ship,” he says, “you're wed.”

One step forward, and the motion is all the light they need.

Cody's fingers loosen, slip down Mace's arm to cup his elbow, and he pulls him in. Mace moves with him, curls his arms around Cody as Cody presses their temples together, wraps him in a hug that’s just this side of too tight. Mace can feel the brush of lashes against his cheek, and hears the breathed, “Thank you,” that’s too soft for anyone else to catch.

He smiles, just a little. Curls a hand around the back of Cody's head, fingers in soft black hair, and murmurs in return, “Thank _you_ , Cody.”

The shake of Cody's faint laughter is clear from this close, and when he lets go, he’s smiling too. Free of the label of _property_ , just as soon as the forms are filed, and Mace has faith that all the rest of this will fall into order shortly afterwards.

When Kilian passes them the forms, to sign, the Force curls around the strokes of the stylus, radiates out in a web of intent like Mace hasn’t seen in years. He studies the shatterpoint for a moment, taking in the breadth of it, and lifts his gaze to catch Cody's.

This is going to change things. But then, Mace already knew that quite well.

With a bit of luck, it will change _everything_.


	7. Chapter 7

“If you punch me, vod, I reserve the right to punch back,” Cody warns quietly. Mace is occupied with Admiral Kilian, and Ahsoka and Anakin both look like they’ve had several rugs yanked out from under them, but—Cody can't read Rex. Not right now.

Rex gives him a long look, but doesn’t say anything. Instead, he asks Ponds, “You knew?”

Ponds snorts. “I thought he was meeting one of the Council members, or comming his old padawan. I was…” He pauses, smirks. “Well, not _as_ surprised as you, since the general told me what was going on.”

Rex pulls a face at him, then elbows Cody. Not about to stand for that, Cody kicks him in the ankle, then sidesteps his retaliatory jab. “You were already yelling about me getting married,” he says. “If I’d told you who, you would have fainted, and then I would have had to explain to Kix.”

“Bastard,” Rex tells him. “Kark you, _anyone_ would have that reaction.” He pauses, studying Cody closely for a moment, and then grimaces. “How did you end up with _Mace Windu_?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” Cody knows every detail of their plan from here on out, but—he forgot to ask how they're supposed to have ended up in this situation. Clearly that was a mistake.

Ponds claps him lightly on the shoulder before Rex can insist, but there’s a slant to his expression that Cody doesn’t quite trust. “However it happened,” he says, “I'm glad.” Smiles, hand heavy on Cody's shoulder, and adds, “All of Lightning Squadron’s happy for you and the general, vod.”

Somehow, Cody reflects, taking a wary look at that smile, he’s never heard congratulations sound so much like a threat before.

“Are they,” he asks dryly, and takes a discrete step back out of range. “Well, at least they're probably happier than General Skywalker.”

Rex doesn’t glance over to where his general is pale-faced and incredulous, hissing at his padawan like he’s a man trapped in a nightmare and is the only one who can see it. “That’s not exactly an accomplishment, Cody,” he points out. He glances past Cody, then straightens abruptly, and says, “General, congratulations.”

“Thank you,” Mace says, but his attention is on Cody as he folds his hands into his sleeves, coming to a stop just a little closer than he might have before. Cody catches a glimpse of Ponds’s smile, but before he can check for whether it’s dangerous or not, Mace says, “Cody, you told me you weren’t sure if you wanted rings. If you decide you don’t, I’ll return these to Razor with my apologies. But…” He withdraws a hand from his sleeve, and there are two bands of gold resting on his palm. “You brought up the matter, and I assumed it would be good to have the option.”

For a moment, Cody can't say anything. Just looks, and—

One offhand mention among a dozen other discussions, and Mace had considered it enough to actually do something about it. Cody curls his fingers against his palm for a long moment, focused on keeping his breathing steady, and then reaches out. Picks up the smaller of the two, running a finger over the band of braided, pressed wire, and glances up to hold Mace's eyes.

“Razor made these?” he asks. It’s—impressive. Especially considering the sergeant can't have had long.

Mace's mouth pulls faintly, halfway between exasperation and a smile. “He handed them over in front of Anakin.”

Which would be the reason for their expanded audience. Cody snorts, but shores up his daring and catches Mace's left hand. Mace is taller, but leaner, and his fingers are longer and slimmer, callused in different places from using a lightsaber instead of a blaster. When Cody slips the ring over the fourth finger of his left hand, it’s a little loose, but barely.

He raises his head, catching Mace's eyes, and it should feel like a scam, like just as much of a false front as their whole marriage, and yet—

It’s a strange moment, intimate. Breathless, in a way Cody's only familiar with on the battlefield, the ringing hush in the aftermath, tension still humming harsh and strong against his bones. _I'm in this with you_ , it feels like he’s saying, far more so than with the vows. _We’re going to make this work_.

Deliberately, desperately aware of the weight of four gazes trained on him, Cody turns his hand, gripping Mace's fingers lightly, and then raises Mace's hand to press a kiss to the ring. It’s strange, feels like Cody is too aware of the attention on them, but Mace's skin is warm, and the metal of the ring is cold against his lips. He tries not to think about it.

“I think,” he says, and hopes the touch of roughness to it can be passed off as something besides a reaction to the tension, “that we were supposed to put them on _during_ the ceremony, not after.”

“You weren’t sure about them. I didn’t want to put you on the spot.” Mace's expression is just touched with humor, but he takes Cody's hand between his own. The feeling of the ring slipping down, cool and just tight enough to be obvious, is unfamiliar, but Cody doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull back when Mace returns the kiss against the ring, either, a flicker of amusement in his eyes that bleeds some of the tension out of Cody's spine. It’s _real_ , that they got married, but—it’s for a reason. For a purpose. It doesn’t have to be that heavy. The reminder is a relief.

Besides, Cody's enough of an asshole to enjoy the way Anakin is staring at them, open-mouthed, expression very similar to that one time Ventress dropped a brick on his head. _And_ the faint twitch around the eyes that Rex is sporting.

“I like them,” he tells Mace, who raises a brow like he knows what Cody's really thinking—and maybe he does, because he’s a Jedi. Cody will have to actually ask about that at some point and stop just assuming.

“Razor will be pleased,” Mace says, and when he makes to let go Cody makes the conscious decision not to, keeping a light grip on his hand. Mace doesn’t object to that, either, and Cody deliberately doesn’t let his mind dwell on the unfamiliar weight of the ring around his finger.

“Are you taking time off, sir?” Ponds asks, but he’s smiling in a way that definitely _isn't_ a threat this time, watching his general closely. “It’s still three days to Ord Radama.”

Mace shakes his head. “If we were still on Coruscant, we would,” he says, “but not now.”

Because they're heading into an active front, potentially facing Grievous personally. Cody doesn’t make a face, but he wants to. Sighs, instead, and says wryly, “Well, we’ll always have the mess hall.”

Mace snorts quietly. “The romance will never die,” he says, grave, and Cody can't help but laugh.

Rex is still staring at him. At some point Cody's just going to have to punch him and be done with it.

“Well, at least you have the night off.” Ponds’s expression doesn’t so much as shift, but Cody gives him a narrow look even so, and Mace raises a brow at him. “I assume I shouldn’t tell the mess to see what they can whip up in terms of cake?”

“Out of army rations?” Cody says judgmentally. “I think I’ll wait for my cake until we’re back on solid ground.”

“Safer,” Mace agrees, and glances up at Anakin and Ahsoka as they approach. He nods to them, and says, “Thank you for standing as witnesses.”

“It was definitely interesting,” Ahsoka says, and elbows Anakin pointedly.

Wincing, Anakin shifts away from her. “Quit it with the elbows, Ahsoka,” he retorts. Hesitates, looking at Mace for another moment, and then at Cody. “I—you love each other enough to go against the Council?”

“It’s not against the Council,” Mace says. “Marriage and relationships are not forbidden. If a Jedi chooses to be celibate, that’s their own decision. The only thing forbidden is an attachment to anything that overshadows a Jedi's adherence to the Code.”

It could be Cody's imagination, but Anakin looks a little paler than normal. “There are more rules than just the Code, though,” he says.

“Yes,” Mace agrees. “Words all Jedi should live by. We do not kill the unarmed, or take revenge, or rule over others.” He considers Anakin for a long moment, then says, “Anakin, my belief in the way of the Jedi and in the Order is the same as it ever was. This does not change my duty, and it doesn’t change my priorities.”

Anakin swallows, and the silence stretches. He glances from Cody to Mace, and then says, “Of course, Master Windu.”

That, Cody thinks, was not an enthusiastic answer. He trades looks with Ahsoka, who’s frowning a little, but doesn’t say anything. Mace doesn’t press, either, just inclines his head without comment and asks Cody, “Dinner?”

“I can bring you a tray later, if you want,” Ponds offers. “If you don’t want to be around anyone else right now.”

If Cody walks into the mess right now, he’s going to be hyperaware of everyone, and feel like they're all staring. And—better to avoid the chance that Obi-Wan is there, even if Cody knows they can't duck him forever.

“Thank you, Ponds,” Mace says, and when Cody meets his eyes there’s a spark of amusement in them. He knows precisely what the assumption will be, but—it’s useful to give them a break. “If you wouldn’t mind, I think we’d both be grateful.”

Anakin looks between them, expression twisting with mild horror.

Cody very carefully doesn’t laugh. “Your quarters, I'm assuming?” he asks Mace.

“You're certainly not going back to mine,” Ponds says dryly.

“Please no,” Rex mutters, pulling a face.

Cody rolls his eyes at both of them. “That was never the plan,” he retorts, and tips his head at the door. “Mace?”

“After you,” Mace returns, and doesn’t look back as he follows Cody out of the room. The hall beyond has a handful of troopers passing, but Cody lets Mace's fingers slip free now that they're in public and simply walks beside him.

“The paperwork’s taken care of?” he asks.

Mace inclines his head. “Admiral Kilian filed it as I watched. It will be reviewed and approved within a standard day.” He pauses, and then says, with faint humor, “I should comm Plo. He’ll be overjoyed to know you accepted.”

And Cody should comm Wolffe, at some point. Having someone else who knows this is a front is a relief, and while Wolffe’s not the most sympathetic brother, he’ll probably appreciate the strangeness that is being married to Mace Windu. Even if they have to be careful what they say over the comm, Cody feels like he should at least send him a holo of Anakin's reaction face.

“It should feel anticlimactic,” Cody says after a moment. “But…”

“It’s just the start of things,” Mace says without looking at him. “That it doesn’t is reasonable.” A pause, and then he asks quietly, “How do you feel?”

Cody isn't sure. He thinks about if for a moment, rather than just spit out a potentially wrong answer, and says, “Lighter.”

For vows thought up on a moment’s notice, Mace's words managed to settle him to some degree. _Through the darkness, and back into the light_. It’s a reminder that even with the war, there’s going to be something after. This is just a place to pass through, not a destination that will hold them forever. And, with this, Cody's a free man. Still a soldier, still a clone, but—his own person, too.

“Good,” Mace says, and pauses before a door. Punches in the code slowly enough that Cody catches all of it, and then steps inside. “It will be tight quarters, but it should suffice.”

The room is smaller than Ponds’s, very definitely not built for three. The only sign of an occupant is Mace's armor, carefully maintained and stacked on the lone table, a handful of datapads beside them, and Mace's cloak, hanging neatly on a hook.

“Only one cloak?” Cody asks dryly, closing the door behind them. “General Kenobi usually has at least three.”

“General Kenobi,” Mace says, perfectly even, “would lose his own head if it wasn’t nominally attached to his neck.”

Cody snickers. “I always wondered how the Jedi quartermaster kept up with that, if it was common,” he says.

“It’s not.” Mace eyes him, and asks, “How many times have you had to collect his lightsaber for him?”

“I try not to count,” Cody admits with a wince. His whole life would be easier if Obi-Wan didn’t constantly drop his _only weapon_ , but short of gluing it to Obi-Wan’s hand, Cody hasn’t found a reliable way to make him hang onto it yet.

With a snort, Mace settles down on the edge of the bed to take off his boots. “I think Qui-Gon must have stressed the lack of attachment rule too thoroughly,” he says dryly.

“I've been tempted to _attach_ it to his face,” Cody allows, “but that’s probably counterproductive.”

Mace's smile is only visible for an instant, but it’s deeply amused. “Ventress would thank you for the laugh,” he says.

“Maybe it would stop General Kenobi from flirting with her,” Cody mutters, though he doesn’t actually have much hope of that.

“If he hasn’t lost the habit at this point, I doubt he ever will.” Neatly, Mace sets his boots aside, looking up at Cody. “It’s early to retire, but…”

“Wedding night,” Cody says, a little ruefully, and after a moment’s hesitation he sinks down next to Mace to do the same. Halfway through unbuckling his boots, he pauses, and then asks, “I—sorry, but—Jedi can read minds, right?”

Mace raises a brow. “Yes,” he says. “But without actively trying, all we usually get is impressions. Moments of emotion, or particularly loud thoughts. Familiarity makes it easier, but truly reading someone still requires a concentrated effort.”

Cody nods, filing that away for future reference. “For the record,” he says determinedly, “I don’t mind, if you need to communicate, or if we’re in a fight and you need to know something.”

There's a long second of silence before Mace inclines his head. “Exposure to you will make me more…aware of you,” he says. “At a point, if you need me, I should be able to tell as long as I'm close. But unless we’re in that situation, your mind is private.”

The 91st works with the 212th more often than some battalions, but not frequently enough that it will likely be an issue. Still, Cody nods, glad that’s been dealt with, and strips off his dress jacket. His kit, along with his blacks, is still in Ponds’s room, but this is good enough for now. Cody isn't entirely sure he likes the idea of having someone in his head, so—emergency only, he thinks, and it’s a line. He can draw it. That feels—good. Steadying.

“Thank you,” he says evenly. Glances around, wondering what in the Force he’s supposed to do all evening while everyone else thinks they're having sex, and—

“There’s an extra datapad on the desk,” Mace says, and when Cody glances at him, he looks amused. Raises an eyebrow, and says, “I don’t need to read your mind to read your expression, Cody.”

Cody snorts, allowing that, and gets up to retrieve it. There are two, and he picks up one, then glances at Mace in question.

“I planned to meditate,” Mace says, and slips off the bed, settling on his knees with his hands on his thighs. Takes a moment, and then with a sigh he pulls off his sash, his outer robe, leaving him in the soft linen shirt. “Noise won't disturb me,” he adds, and tips his head forward, eyes closing.

Cody has walked in on Obi-Wan meditation a few times, seen him leading Ahsoka through a meditation after a particularly hard fight. Slightly odd, to see it from this close, the way Mace's expression stills, his breathing deepens. He watches for a long moment, not sure why it’s interesting, and wonders if the faint sense of a silvery hush is the Force moving with Mace's breathes or just his imagination. Then, shaking himself, he looks away, activating the datapad and pulling up a book Obi-Wan recommended weeks ago. He hasn’t gotten a chance to read it yet, but—this seems as good as any.

The weight of the ring on his finger draws his attention for just a moment, and he brushes his thumb over it. Can't help the way his eyes stray to the matching dart of gold on Mace's hand, and he breathes out.

The paperwork’s been filed, the ceremony’s done. They're married.

It’s going to take some getting used to.

Once, Mace could have reached all the way across the sector and touched Depa’s mind with just a few moments of concentration. Now, with the darkness that’s spread out to overwhelm the whole galaxy, it takes a long, long hour of pressing through the shadows, following the bright thread of their time-worn connection down through the dim places and back up into brilliance.

Depa is awake, which is a good sign. When Mace touches her mind, her attention is a signal-flare of relief and warmth all at once, and she turns away from the sight of a sunrise, reaches back. Her mind is halls of brightness and gold, beautiful, wise, and when her strength curls into his Mace breathes out, feeling like he’s taking his first full breath since the fallout of the mission to Haruun Kal.

 _Master_ , she offers, and the image of the sunrise rises, presents itself. Depa’s wonder is as soft as silk scarves, delicate and flowing and no different for all the years since he first felt it. _This is a beautiful planet._

 _Peaceful_? Mace asks, and receives a flash of wry humor. No planet is peaceful right now, not even the neutral systems, and Depa’s most recent assignment isn't anywhere close to a neutral planet.

At the very least, though, she isn't training insurgents this time, and—

Depa smiles, looking down at the dark head resting on her lap, and frames Caleb’s head in deft, familiar hands. _He’s a clever child, Master. He’s been picking things up quickly. And he has so many questions I can hardly keep up._

 _Now you know how I felt_ , Mace tells her, and doesn’t hide the curl of his fond amusement. Depa smiles back, stroking Caleb’s hair, and offers Mace an image of lightsaber practice on a hill at evening, Caleb matching each motion.

She’s not teaching him Vaapad. Mace can't bring himself to be surprised.

 _You're in the Esstran sector,_ Depa notes after a moment. _Or you’ve gained a vast amount of power since we last met, my old master._ _What brings you this far out?_

 _War,_ Mace answers, tired enough to let her feel the very edges of it even when he tries to hide it.

 _Always war, now,_ Depa agrees, quiet, soft. She buries her fingers in Caleb’s hair, bending over her sleeping padawan like she can protect him from the whole galaxy, and breathes out. Her anxiety is acknowledged, accepted, released, and Mace breathes through the familiar process with her, feeling his own worries ease as he does. Depa is an anchor, always.

 _But_ , Depa says after a moment, _you wouldn’t have reached this far just to tell me you were in the sector, Master. What’s happened that you need my input?_

 _Not needing your input has never stopped you from providing it to me_ , Mace reminds her, dust-dry, and she laughs a little. With that sound so close, it’s easy for Mace to say, _I wanted to tell you something personally, before any news got out_.

Depa touches the edges of his thoughts, a light skim, and Mace lets her feel the ease of them, the lack of grief to sooth her sudden shock of panic. Breathes out with her, the sight of the sunrise spreading between their minds, and says, _Peace, Depa._

 _I know, Master_. The light poke she gives him is likely deserved for treating her like a padawan instead of the Council member she is, and Mace sends her the flicker of his apology before the oversight can even sting. She accepts it with amusement, and then the sunrise fades away, replaced with a familiar calm garden. The Temple’s gardens, lush and green and practical, but—not quite. Depa’s imagination overlaps the edge of the Room of a Thousand Fountains, and the sound of running water is a quiet counterpoint.

 _If not bad news, then what is it?_ Depa asks, and her amusement darts like a flash of gold across their minds. _Especially when it’s so urgent you couldn’t use a comm_.

Mace bleeds exasperation down the link. _Nothing is entirely secure, and I wanted this conversation to be between us alone_ , he counters, and then opens his eyes. Gives Depa the image of his quarters, and then slowly, carefully adds in the figure sprawled asleep on his bed, datapad resting on his chest, head turned and scarred clear. Focuses, just for an instant, on the ring around Cody's finger, and then looks down to let her see his own.

There's a long, long moment as Depa considers, deliberate and careful. _Not a passing interest, then_ , she concludes after a moment. There’s no condemnation in her mind, just a flicker of worry. _Master, the Council won't take this well._

 _The Council can keep its collective nose out of my personal life_ , Mace counters, flat. _It won't affect my duty_.

 _Nothing does,_ Depa tells him, laughing a little. It’s not a condemnation, but Mace still lets out a slow, rueful breath.

 _I wanted you to know_ , he says. _If I could have asked you here, I would have, but it was…rushed_.

Depa hums, tolerant of his excuses. _Show me the ceremony?_

Mace lets her glimpse his memories, images with the attached emotions tucked away; Depa won't pry, after all. She pokes at him for it, but lets it go easily, and laughs at the way Anakin's face twists in horror in Mace's recollections.

 _He’s always complaining that he’s never seen you smile_ , she tells him. _Now he’s seen you smile_ and _heard your commander imply you're about to go have sex_.

Mace scowls at her. _Depa—_

Her laughter is bright copper and shimmering, as warm as her touch. _What’s his name?_

 _Cody_ , Mace says, giving in. Nothing has ever dissuaded Depa for long. _Commander Cody of the 212 th Attack Battalion_.

 _Obi-Wan’s battalion_ , Depa concludes, because she’s always been too quick for his good. _Have you_ told _Obi-Wan that you married his commander yet?_

 _Absolutely not,_ Mace retorts. _Not until we aren’t sharing a ship at the very least_.

Depa chuckles. _I want to meet him,_ she tells Mace, touches his memories of where he’s going and why. He provides them, keeping the details blurred but letting her see enough to know. _After Grievous, if you can—_

 _I’ll introduce you_ , Mace promises, and feels her thanks like a hand on his cheek.

 _I hope he makes you very happy,_ Depa whispers, and Mace can almost feel the weight of her head against his shoulder, her braids tickling his cheek. _You need more happiness_.

Mace doesn’t answer with words, just—an impression. Not even a fully formed thought, but the edge of the sense-memory of twisting beads into her padawan braid after a long mission, so deeply, desperately proud of her. Half an instant of her as a baby, and his own hands pulling her off that pirate ship, sharp with the wonder of her opening her eyes and looking up at him, the connection that rose as he carried her all the way across the galaxy and back to the temple.

Doesn’t say _you have always made me happy_ , because by now she has to know it’s true.

Depa’s smile is small, but she rests against him for a long moment. _I said_ more _, Master. Being happy once doesn’t mean you can't ever be again_.

 _The wisdom of a venerable Council member_ , Mace concludes. _How sage._

Depa shoves lightly at his shoulder. _It is, and you should heed it_. She pauses, and the sense of her attention is weighty, sharp as it slides into seriousness. _To take this step so suddenly—is everything all right, Master?_

If anyone in the galaxy can pry the details of this plot out of Mace, it’s Depa. He very carefully cordons off any consideration of it, and says instead, _I dislike that General Grievous is striking in the Outer Rim so soon after attacking the communications array at the Rishi moon base. I had thought he would move directly to attack Kamino._

 _You have a bad feeling_ , Depa translates, and smiles at his flicker of exasperation. _Just because Master Jinn always said it and got you into trouble doesn’t mean you can't._

Mace refuses to acknowledge that on principle. _I fear what Grievous wants so close to the edge of the Stygian Caldera_ , he says, and it sobers Depa, makes her frown faintly.

 _Less the Caldera and more what’s beyond it,_ she agrees. Pauses, looking down at Caleb again, and asks, _Would you like me to come? Commander Grey can hold things here, if you need me._

Mace goes to say no, then hesitates. Thinks of the dull red glow of the Caldera, the suddenness of this advance, the way Grievous has yet to try and drive Aayla back any further, despite the fact that he must know reinforcements are on their way.

The Force works through instincts and urges, sideways thoughts that creep in and settle. Slowly, carefully, Mace breathes out, and listens to this one.

_Maybe. If we encounter problems, I may call for your help._

_You’ll have it_ , Depa promises without hesitation. Feels Caleb stir and smiles, quick, pleased. _Always._

Mace touches his gratitude against her thoughts, then pulls back. _May the Force keep you well, Depa_.

 _May it keep you out of trouble, Master,_ Depa returns, to Mace's annoyance, and she’s laughing at him when he lets the connection fade away and opens his eyes with a careful breath.

Cody is still asleep, peaceful. Mace considers him for a long moment, the brightness of Depa’s familiar presence lingering, and then rises to his feet. There’s a mind he knows well approaching down the hall, and he moves to open the door and greet Ponds before the chime can wake Cody.


	8. Chapter 8

Cody stirs at the shift of the mattress beneath him. For one half-asleep instant he’s entirely sure that it’s Waxer or Boil trying to pull a prank, or that he’s back in training on Kamino with Rex crawling into his bunk after a nightmare. The hum of a ship in hyperspace means relative safety, so he doesn’t go for his blaster, just makes a sound of indignation and opens one eye.

“You’d have better luck under the covers,” Mace tells him, quiet, amused, and Cody just stares at him for a moment, processing. Then, disgruntled, he sits up enough to shove the blankets down, wriggles under them, and tucks himself back against the wall with a grunt.

“A morning person, I see,” Mace says, and Cody can't quite get his words together for a response, so he makes a rude sound instead. With a soft snort, Mace slides into bed beside him, and says, “Ponds brought your kit with him. I assume you don’t want dinner right now.”

“No,” Cody manages, displeased with everything. He buries his face in the pillow, but his spot isn't as warm now. With a sigh, he rolls over, and—

Mace is warm. Mace is stretched out on his back on the mattress, eyes closed, and Cody _knows_ he should give him space, but.

The temptation proves too much.

Deliberately, Cody shifts enough that he can curl into Mace's side, leeching body heat, and sighs in relief. Space is cold in a bone-deep way that leaves him grouchy and sore. He’s never minded the jungle planets or desert worlds the way some of his brothers do, but—cold’s terrible.

Less so right now, at least.

There's a pause, like surprise, and then a low, quiet hum of warm amusement. A hand touches his where it’s pressed to Mace's shoulder, and Mace says, “I see you stealing blankets isn't going to be a problem.”

“Only if you piss me off,” Cody mutters, and closes his eyes again. “Night.”

Another stretch of silence, delicate, contemplative. “Good night,” Mace returns, and then says nothing more.

Cody drifts back to sleep, pleased with the warmth and quiet. If he dreams at all, it’s nothing he remembers afterwards.

Strange shadows drive Mace from sleep well before the first shift, a lingering sense of dread heavy against his skin and thick on his tongue. It’s strangling, malevolent, and Mace opens his eyes in the darkness and can hear his own heartbeat, loud and fast in his ears.

There's no attack. Not yet, at the very least. The ship is quiet, still far from the next shift change, and there are no minds in distress except for an engineer who just dropped a wrench on their foot. No one is lurking, and if there's another ship approaching Mace can't find any hint of it.

The arm draped over his side is warm, as is the body pressed up behind him. Mace closes his eyes, then opens them again deliberately and slides out of bed. In his wake, Cody shifts, mutters something, and opens one eye, looking mildly more alert than he did last night.

“Problem?” he asks, thick with sleep.

Mace considers this for a moment. “Not yet,” he says.

Cody huffs in annoyance and steals Mace's discarded portion of the covers, dragging them in and hunkering down. “Ugh, _di'kutla_ _Jetii_ ,” he mutters, and the title itself is a curse.

Mace snorts before he can help it, finding his clothes as quietly as he can. By the time he’s pulled them on, Cody is asleep again, and Mace leaves him be. The alarm will wake him before shift, and Mace needs space. Needs to pry apart his dreams and understand them, because the darkness there is—unsettling.

In the hush, his feet take him back to the observation room, and Mace doesn’t bother to be surprised.

He is, however, startled to find another figure at the windows, staring out into the blurred stars of hyperspace, wrapped in his robes and looking tired. Mace pauses in the doorway, watching Obi-Wan for a long moment, and then steps inside, crossing the room with quiet steps to join him.

The smile Obi-Wan casts him is wan, wry, and he shifts over to give Mace a little more room. “Mace. Early mornings all around, I see.”

Mace inclines his head, still able to feel the clutching shadows that followed him through his sleep. “You feel it, too,” he says gravely.

Obi-Wan pauses, then grimaces, running a hand through his hair. Judging by the state of it, it isn't the first time he’s done it this morning. “It woke me from a sound sleep,” he confesses with a crooked smile. “Only I can't seem to tell what _it_ is.”

“The Force is clouded,” Mace allows, keeping his eyes on the stars beyond the window. “Usually the shadows lighten away from the Core, but…”

“But,” Obi-Wan finishes for him, “given our destination, it’s highly likely they’ll simply get darker.” His eyes find Mace's in their vague reflections, and he says, “Nothing has emerged from the Caldera in a lifetime.”

“That we know of,” Mace says quietly.

Obi-Wan sighs tiredly. He doesn’t try to argue, though. “Whatever Grievous wants at the edge of the old Empire, I doubt it’s good for us. Though maybe he just wants to sightsee and capture a few of our bases.”

Mace doesn’t even bother acknowledging that, because if Grievous wanted to make advances into the Outer Rim, he wouldn’t have picked Ord Radama to start his attack. It’s near several hyperlanes, but none of them are major trade routes, and there are few planets nearby to advance his campaign. The Republic needs to keep their bases there, but—it’s a target of little value otherwise. “The Empire fell a thousand years ago,” he says, “but it hasn’t eliminated the danger those planets possess. Grievous may not be a Force-user, but he serves one.”

Obi-Wan is silent for a long moment. “Any word on Dooku’s plans?” he asks. Doesn’t use Quinlan’s name, even though all of the High Council know exactly what Quinlan is doing right now. “He’s relatively new to being a Sith. If he’s seeking more power, or more information that his master won't provide him…”

“It’s possible,” Mace allows. “Given the disruption caused by the Caldera, one ship would be able to get into the old Empire easily. But there’s hardly any need to stage an attack if that’s all Dooku wants. He could have entered without drawing attention to it, and we never would have known.”

From the face Obi-Wan pulls, he doesn’t find this argument overly convincing. “Yes, well, I hate to disagree with you, Mace. However, knowing my own Master and his penchant for dramatics, likely inherited, I would believe that Dooku could stage an attack just to draw attention to something.”

For a moment Mace can't even _begin_ to form a response to the sheer irony of Obi-Wan saying that. He raises an incredulous brow at him, heavily judgmental, and says, “Yes, well, it’s a dramatic lineage you come from.”

“So terribly dramatic, yes,” Obi-Wan says without a shred of self-awareness. “I spent my whole apprenticeship absolutely sure I was going to strangle Qui-Gon for his ridiculousness at some point, it was terrible.”

Mace closes his eyes and reminds himself very deliberately that it’s a bad idea to whack fellow council members over the head. It’s rude. It’s undignified. Even if it would feel good. “How awful for you,” he manages after a moment.

The way Obi-Wan eyes him says his tone wasn’t quite as even there as he meant it to be, but beyond a faint narrowing of his eyes, Obi-Wan doesn’t comment. Instead, he folds his hands into his sleeves and asks, “Could this all be a front? I know we expected Grievous to go after the cloning facilities, but if Ventress takes up the task while we’re out here, it could go badly for Kamino.”

Mace frowns, considering for a long moment. “Shaak Ti is aware of a threat,” he says at length, “and Agen Kolar should be joining her on Kamino today. If I were to bet anyone’s skill with a lightsaber against Ventress’s, it would be Agen’s.”

Obi-Wan chuckles. “Just as well you didn’t send him for his ability to charm the natives,” he says dryly. “Master Ti will hopefully be able to smooth over his rough edges with Lama Su.” A pause, and then, more quietly, he says, “I dislike the fact that they would target Kamino to begin with. There are enough fully-trained clones there to make it difficult, and the planet’s defenses are strong. The Kaminoans are not careless.”

“No,” Mace agrees. “But Ventress is not a general. She’s an assassin. I would assume that if she’s involved, they're looking to kill someone or steal something that will cripple the production of more clones.”

“Jango Fett’s DNA,” Obi-Wan murmurs. “Or they're targeting the trainers. Master Ti, perhaps.”

“Shaak will have Commander Colt of the Rancor Battalion with her at all times,” Mace says evenly. “Between him, Shaak's awareness, and Agen’s swordsmanship, Ventress will have a very bad day if she tries to go after Shaak or the other trainers.”

Obi-Wan’s relief is a quiet thing, but clearly visible. “I'm glad she has a guard,” he says. “I wouldn’t have thought she would accept one, but—I'm glad.”

Mace closes his eyes again. “Shaak has been a Jedi longer than you have been alive,” he reminds Obi-Wan with a touch of amusement. “She knows to accept her own vulnerabilities when lives are on the line. It does not make her any less strong, just wise.”

Obi-Wan, who has never in his life met a limit he didn’t test at least twice, makes a face he should be too old for. “Yes, well, sometimes having a guard is more of a hindrance than a help.”

Very deliberately, Mace says nothing, and allows the silence to speak volumes.

“I’m not saying _always_ ,” Obi-Wan protests. “In certain situations, the addition of another person can make things far more complicated than they otherwise need to be—”

The hiss of the door sliding open saves Mace from a barrage of eloquently-worded excuses, and he’s relieved enough that even the sight of Anakin, dragging himself in with a yawn, is a boon. Eyes still bleary, Anakin stumbles over to them, collapsing into one of the chairs with a groan.

“Anyone else feel like they got run over by a bantha?” he asks, rubbing his face, then glances up, locks eyes with Mace, and freezes like a dugar dugar in the lights of a speeder.

“We were just discussing that,” Obi-Wan says, apparently all too ready to drop the previous topic and unaware of the sudden tension. “Though given the direction we’re headed, it should be unsurprising that the Dark Side of the Force is so…aggressive here.”

Anakin blinks, gaze darting away from Mace with something like relief. “Ord Radama?” he asks, brow furrowing.

Mace raises a brow at Obi-Wan, who rolls his eyes but keeps his mouth shut, and then says, “Ord Radama and the Radama Void border the Stygian Caldera.”

“A nebula, right?” Anakin asks, slightly wary.

“Yes,” Obi-Wan says, all dry patience. “A very _important_ nebula in galactic history, oh padawan of mine. The Caldera is what separates Republic space from the ruins of the Sith Empire. Behind that nebula are several dozen Sith-aligned planets. Most of them are deserted, but—I do not like the odds that they are _entirely_ deserted, given what’s happening to the galaxy.”

“ _Sith_ worlds?” Anakin echoes, and his jaw clenches. “Grievous isn’t even a Force-user, what the hell does he want with the old Empire?”

“He may not be a Force-user, but he works with many,” Mace points out. “Our best bet is to keep him as far away from the Caldera as possible, and chase him back to Republic space before he can slip through our lines.”

“That’s why you had Aayla draw back to that point, instead of staying near the planet,” Anakin realizes. “She’s a blockade for Grievous.”

Mace inclines his head. “Aayla understands the importance of her position. She and her men will fight until we arrive, but…the fact that Grievous hasn’t advanced is troubling. We don’t know his goals, and I would rather not guess at them and be wrong.”

Anakin’s expression twists, and he rubs his hands over his face. “I dreamed that something was hunting me,” he said. “Somewhere dark. And I knew I had to keep running no matter what, but it kept getting closer.”

A chill slides down Mace’s spine, and he exchanges looks with Obi-Wan, trying not to let his concern show. Mace isn’t usually one to look to the future, tries to put more stock in the Living Force than the Unifying Force, but—

Anakin is one of the strongest Jedi Mace has ever encountered, and Mace is willing to trust that the Force speaks through him in ways it doesn’t with other Jedi.

Deliberately, when Obi-Wan doesn’t move, Mace steps forward to take the seat next to Anakin. The flicker of Anakin’s eyes towards him is deeply wary, but Mace doesn’t let his expression change, doesn’t let his presence waver.

“Was there anything else?” he asks, and Anakin’s eyes narrow faintly. “Around you, in the darkness, could you see anything?”

Surprise crosses Anakin’s face, and he sits up, wariness still present but pushed back. “I—maybe,” he says with a frown, and closes his eyes. “There were…flashes, above me. Like flares going off. And I kept tripping over things.”

Maybe just a manifestation of the dark dreams they all had, but stronger because of Anakin’s connection to the Force. Mace considers that for a long moment, then asks, “Where were you going? You were running away, but did you have a destination? Was it chasing you towards something?”

Anakin opens his eyes, swallows. Meets Mace’s gaze, and says, “Yeah. There was a path, kind of, and—I didn’t want to see what was at the end of it, but. It was something big, and dark.”

Ord Radama is a swampy planet, every inch of ground desperately reclaimed from the bogs. If one tried to run through the swamps, they might have a similar experience. And starfighters overhead could give the impression of flares. Mace weighs the images against what he knows of the planet, and then says, “A thing? Or a person?”

Anakin stills for a long, long moment. “A person,” he says finally. “I think it was a person.”

Mace inclines his head and rises to his feet. “Ord Radama, possibly,” he says. “If the Force is trying to warn us that our invasion will fail, perhaps we should make a different plan to capture Grievous.”

Anakin is staring at him, and his expression is caught between caution and confusion. “It was just a dream,” he says finally.

Obi-Wan winces.

Brows rising, Mace looks between the two of them. “Jedi,” he says, “do not make plans. We do not calculate. We do not overthink. The Force moves through us as instinct and action, and we follow. If your instincts say this dream is important, I am inclined to listen to them.”

Anakin opens his mouth, hesitates, closes it. “Oh,” he says, and Mace studies him closely, wonder why he’s gone pale so suddenly. “I—Master Windu, do you get…visions?”

“Sometimes,” Mace says. “If rarely. My gifts lie in other areas.”

“Vaapad,” Anakin ventures.

Mace nods. “That is one of them. Have you ever looked closely enough at how an object exists in the Force to see how to break it?”

“No.” It’s Obi-Wan who answers, quiet. “I’m afraid I never had a talent for such things, myself, so teaching them is almost impossible for me. And…Anakin is not fond of book-work.”

Anakin gives him a mulish look. “If I recall, Master, you weren’t fond of _making_ me do book-work, either.”

“Indeed,” Obi-Wan agrees, droll. “Even I manage to learn my lesson after enough catastrophic failures.”

“It might be a valuable skill for you to learn,” Mace says, unimpressed. “You’re strong enough in the Force that there’s a chance it could come easily to you.”

“Did you learn it easily?” Anakin asks, and it’s not quite a challenge, but—the edge of one, maybe.

“I was born with the skill,” Mace says, unmoving. “It’s how I was able to kill Jango Fett so easily on Geonosis. I saw where he would break.”

Anakin doesn’t quite blanche, but the thought is there in the tension that snaps through him. “Objects,” he echoes, uneasy.

“And people,” Mace confirms, quiet. He curls his hands together at the small of his back, looks to Obi-Wan, and then says, “If you want to learn, I can teach you. For now, we should have a backup plan for taking Grievous if he tries to slip past us during the fight.”

“Something to bring Aayla into, certainly,” Obi-Wan says, determinedly light. “Quinlan taught her how to plan a sneak attack very well.”

“I can sneak,” Anakin says, offended. “Even if _you're_ always getting caught, Master—”

Thankfully, the sweep of the door cuts Obi-Wan off before he can take offense. A moment later, Ahsoka slips in, pauses like she’s startled to see the three of them awake, and then smiles with something like relief.

“Early morning meeting, Masters?” she asks, approaching, and then folds herself down to sit at Anakin's feet. “And you didn’t invite me?”

“I _thought_ you were sleeping,” Anakin defends, and nudges her with the toe of his boot. “Nightmares, Snips?”

“Just—darkness,” Ahsoka says, and curls her arms around herself, shivering. “It was too hot and too dark and I hated it.”

Too hot, Mace thinks, and tilts his head. His own dream was stifling, too, but he’d thought that was a reaction to the unfamiliar heat of Cody's body. Casting a glance at Anakin, he finds a startled expression on his face, and asks, “Anakin?”

“My dream was hot, too,” he says, frowning. “Not—not like a desert, though. Everything was sweaty and damp and strangling.”

“Now that you mention it, it was rather muggy,” Obi-Wan agrees thoughtfully, and glances at Mace. “Ord Radama is a relatively cold planet. At least near the capital.”

Not Ord Radama the Force is warning them about, then. Somehow, Mace likes that even less. He inclines his head in agreement, then straightens and says, “I could use a spar to clear my head. Obi-Wan?”

Obi-Wan rolls his eyes in a way he probably thinks Mace can't see. “With all due respect, Mace, I refuse to spar anywhere _near_ you, ever again, and you’re fully aware of it.”

“Really?” Anakin asks, amused, and looks between them. “Why? Did something happen?”

Mace snorts. “It got…out of hand,” he allows.

“That training salle hasn’t been the same since,” Obi-Wan agrees ruefully. “Unless we have a place where we can get safely…carried away, given our styles—”

Anakin grins, the look of a padawan knowing his master more than well enough to pick out his tells. “You slammed into the ceiling, didn’t you. And then someone yelled at you for denting it.”

“I,” Obi-Wan says with dignity, “am sure I did no such thing.”

“He did,” Mace confirms without hesitation, and Anakin laughs.

“Well,” he says, grinning. “I’d like to spar, Master Windu. If you don’t mind.”

“Of course not.” Mace eyes him, then Ahsoka, and says, “I would like to see your teamwork, if you’re willing.”

Ahsoka blinks in surprise, but Anakin raises a challenging brow. “You think you can take us?” he asks, cocky.

His attitude is the sort of thing time usually wears away, and Mace reminds himself yet again that Anakin is still very, very young, even if he’s been given a padawan of his own. “Either way, it will be interesting,” he says mildly, and Anakin rolls his eyes a little.

“Well, Snips?” he asks, and Ahsoka huffs but rises to her feet, stretching.

“Sure,” she says. “Thanks, Master Windu.”

“Of course.” Mace breathes out. Anakin is a very good swordsman himself, from what Mace knows, and he hasn’t seen him fight from up close in a few months. The war has likely honed his skill further, and Mace is…interested, deeply, in finding out just how skilled he is.

Jedi don’t look forward to fights, but this is sparring. Mace can want to do this and not have to hold himself back.

Rex is all but alone at a table in the mess when Cody gets his tray, sitting at one end with the 212th’s medic at the far end near the doors. It’s not that unusual; Rex likes quiet in the mornings, and most of the 501st is aboard the _Resolute_. Practically everyone else in the mess is 91st, and while Cody likes Ponds’s men well enough, they're not familiar in anything but their faces.

When he settles across from Rex, though, Rex doesn’t hesitate to give him a nod, gaze doing a quick sweep before he says, “I was expecting you to miss your shift, vod.”

Cody snorts. “You expected _me_ and _Mace_ to miss our shifts?” he asks pointedly.

Rex pauses, then grimaces. “Never mind,” he says, exasperated, and Cody smirks at him.

“It’s not like much of anything’s changed,” he says, and it’s probably the biggest lie he’s ever told Rex. _I'm a free man_ , he wants to say. “Just where I'm sleeping.”

Rex huffs, and the roll of his eyes in unappreciated. “Not even that,” he says. “Got caught up talking, huh?”

Remembering his words about being out so late the other night, Cody pauses. He hadn’t thought about that, but—well. The implication’s pretty clear.

Determinedly nonchalant, Cody focuses on his food. “Well, would you have believed me if I told you the truth?” _We’re plotting to free several million men from enforced service to the Republic_ would probably not have gone over all that much better than _I'm sleeping with Mace Windu_ , after all.

“No,” Rex says without so much as a moment’s hesitation. “Not in the _least_.”

Cody shrugs like Rex made his point for him. “And we did. Talk, I mean.”

Rex grimaces. “No details, vod. I have to be able to look him in the eye sometimes.” He pauses, and then says, “You didn’t come in together. Shine wearing off already?”

“I thought you just said you didn’t want details.” Cody mutters, rolling his eyes, but at Rex's look he says, “He got up early. I think something disturbed him.”

“You and how you turn into some sort of strangling cephalopod in your sleep?” Rex asks dryly, then frowns. “Wait, General Windu was disturbed? How could you tell?”

There are only vague memories to go along with Cody's second brief moment of alertness. He hesitates, considering, and waves a hand at his face. “It’s there. Just. Around the eyes. Kind of.” As he wracks his memory, something else surfaces, and he winces at the recollection of calling a high general and the Master of the Order an idiotic Jedi. That was…probably uncalled for.

“What’s that face for? You have a bout of early morning Cody syndrome?” Rex asks, and he sounds far too amused. Cody scowls at him, debating whether to kick him under the table again, but he tried that yesterday. It’s too late, though, because Rex laughs. “That’s a yes, then. Has he seen you like that before, or did he get a big shock when you called him a peedunky rankweed sucker?”

“I did not,” Cody mutters, but the tips of his ears are hot. He focuses on his caf instead of Rex, because it’s much more agreeable, and says to the cup, “Any chance you’ve seen him this morning?”

Rex shakes his head, still looking unbecomingly amused. If his face gets stuck like that, he’s going to give all brothers a bad name, Cody thinks uncharitably. “Not yet.” He turns in his seat, looking around, and smirks when he spots Ponds halfway down the next table. “Ponds! Where’s your general?”

Ponds glances up from his pad, raising a brow. Looks between Rex and Cody, then very obviously shakes his head, and says, “Last I saw, he, General Skywalker, and Commander Tano were dueling in the training room on C-Deck.”

Dueling. Going by Ponds’s relaxed tone, probably a practice duel, rather than a duel to the death. Cody checks the time, considers how long it will take him to walk down and see for himself, and then regretfully sets the idea aside. It’s always fun to watch Jedi spar; they move faster than any clone, and it’s like the laws of gravity stop applying as soon as the Force comes into play. Between Anakin, Ahsoka, and Mace, that’s got to be one hell of an interesting match, too.

“Abuse your authority and pull up the security footage later,” Rex tells him, waving his thanks to Ponds. It’s clear he knows exactly where Cody's thoughts are, and he's smirking about it. “Maybe if you ask nicely security will even give you a copy for when you’re stationed apart.”

This time Cody really does kick him, and he doesn’t regret it at all.


	9. Chapter 9

Between half a dozen meetings, comms back to the temple to oversee the deployment of several new Knights, a strategy meeting with Aayla and Commander Bly and then a subsequent meeting with the _Endurance_ ’s own tacticians, Mace manages to entirely miss Cody except for a few passing glimpses. It’s busy enough that he hardly even notices, or registers why he might need to, right up until Ponds deftly pulls the datapad right out of his hands.

For a long moment, Mace stares at his empty hands. Then, slowly, he lifts his head, brow rising pointedly, and levels a look at his commander.

Ponds just gives him a smile that has no right to be so self-satisfied. “I think there’s someone waiting for you, sir. Maybe you should take a break.”

So that’s how it’s going to be. Mace folds his hands behind himself, not letting his gaze waver, and says, “Last time I checked, Commander, the only person waiting for me was Tactical.”

Ponds doesn’t budge. Nor does he hand back the pad. “Tactical isn’t who I was thinking of, sir, unless Tactical’s one deck down putting the fear of command into a new batch of shinies.”

Mace blinks, then stretches out his senses. It’s easy enough to find what Ponds is referring to, an edge of collective awe wrapped up with irritation and determination in roughly equal measure. Cody’s mind is a calm spot of amusement in the center of the tangle, and Mace almost winces as a young trooper gets slammed bodily into the ground, Cody’s concentration not even flickering.

“You just want me to save the new troopers,” he says dryly.

“Absolutely, sir.” Ponds tries to hide a grin, but not that hard. “If he breaks all of them, Kamino won’t send us new ones for at least a few months.”

Mace weighs giving in gracefully against insisting and finishing what bits of work he has left, then strangles a sigh. There’s nothing immediately pressing, and won’t be until the morning, likely. They’ll reach Ord Radama at the end of rotation tomorrow, and everything that can be prepared has been. “Very well,” he allows. “Though it might have more impact if you did it.”

“Playing the benevolent commander?” Ponds asks with a grin. “Then all of Cody’s hard work will go to waste and they won’t be scared of me. Better for their general to rescue them from their mean COs.”

Mace snorts, but turns his steps towards the closest lift instead of the mess hall as he’d intended. Ponds watches him go, then keeps moving, and Mace watches his retreat with something between ruefulness and amusement. He hadn’t expected the charade of him and Cody in love to be so palatable, even to his commander. Had expected a protest, or suspicion, or even a confrontation, because Ponds is a clever man. That none has come is…strange.

Maybe it’s entirely that Ponds saw him slipping away to attend to things and decided that a hidden romance is the best explanation. It’s also potentially possible that Ponds has realized it’s false and is biding his time until he says something. But—

Mace doesn’t catch any hint of duplicity around him, and as the lift doors slide shut he looks again. Not an intrusion, just a touch against mood, and—Ponds feels satisfied. Amused, but quietly, in a pleased way.

A way to pull Mace from work before midnight is apparently reason enough to make him approve, Mace thinks, and shakes his head, a flicker of humor rising. If only everyone was so easily pleased.

B-Deck is busier than the one above, full of troopers moving equipment or heading back to their quarters after the end of the shift. Several of them greet Mace as he emerges, and Mace nods back, but doesn’t pause. There are familiar presences ahead, and when Mace turns down the side corridor, it’s to the sight of Razor and Stak framing the door to the training bay, Brass right behind them. Lightning Squadron’s medic is very pointedly not looking into bay, so he’s the first to see Mace approaching, and he immediately straightens up.

“General,” he says, and salutes quickly. “Here to see the bloodbath?”

Mace raises a brow. “Is someone bleeding?” he asks, nodding at Stak and Razor as they turn.

“Brass wouldn’t know, sir,” Stak says, grinning. “He hasn’t actually looked in about ten minutes.”

“If I see a wound, I have to go fix it,” Brass says. “And you saw what happened to Blowback when he got too close. Collateral damage.”

A loud crash sounds, like a body in plastoid armor just hit something solid, and Brass winces. Razor snickers, and asks, “What about _hearing_ injuries?”

“The rules are a bit sketchier on that,” Brass says, but he leans through the door for just a moment, then pulls back. “Yeah, he’s fine.”

“He’s _lucky_ ,” Stak counters. “The commander’s feeling merciful.”

“Or he found a new victim,” Razor says, and grins as another Lightning Squadron trooper approaches. “Not you, Ayo?”

Ayo makes a face. “Cody and I were batchmates,” he says. “I already suffered enough as his training dummy. The shinies can have him.”

Mace snorts quietly, tucking his hands into his sleeves, and glances past his troopers to where Cody is just offering a clone a hand up. The new trooper looks resigned, but as soon as he’s on his feet he sinks into a ready stance. Cody does the same, but he eyes him for barely a handful of moments before he moves. The shinie tries to block, but Cody grabs his arm, ducks a blow, and tosses the trooper over his hip with deceptive ease.

It’s something that Mace knows, distantly, that Cody is good at hand-to-hand. They’ve fought together a few times, and Mace has seen it, both Cody's lethality in close quarters and his marksmanship. Different to see it here, though, blunted and milder for training instead of ruthless against droids. Different to see it with time to consider it, too, and not a battle to worry about around them.

Cody moves like Jango, that moment in the arena on Geonosis. Brutal, but fluid, three steps ahead of his opponent.

Mace was better, that day. And, like with Jango, he can see the structure of moving parts that make up Cody as a fighter. Can see the weakness there, and how to break him.

He closes his eyes and presses the image back. Knowing is instinctive and that will never change, but at the very least he can try not to pay attention to the knowledge. He’s certainly never going to use it.

A low, sharp whistle from Stak immediately precedes another hard thud, and then a distinct groan. “Whoops,” Stak murmurs. “And he lasted almost ten seconds, even. Shame.”

“Two punches,” Razor counters. “He was just slower taking them. Oh, hey, isn't that one of the 212th?”

Mace takes a step forward to get a better look, taking in the clone’s carefully-maintained mustache. It takes a moment to remember Obi-Wan’s stories about two of his men finding a little girl in the rubble on Ryloth and keeping her safe until they could find her father, but Mace recalls is as the clone smirks at Cody, sinking into a brawler’s stance.

“Boil, I believe,” he says, resting a hand on the frame of the door. “Ghost Company’s medic is present, Brass, if you’d like to watch without feeling responsible.”

“Absolutely,” Brass says, and shoves Razor a step left to fit between him and Stak. Stak yelps in offense as he’s jolted right into Mace, who plants his feet and doesn’t budge.

“Sorry, sir,” Stak offers, abashed, and kicks Brass. Glances over—

Freezes, eyes widening, as his gaze lands on the ring around Mace's finger.

“Oh,” he says, sounding stunned. “Sir, that’s—is that those rings Razor was making the other day?” He looks at Mace's other hand, doubtless expecting the other half of the pair, and when he doesn’t find it, he frowns, confused.

Razor looks over, too, but he smiles. “They fit,” he says. “That’s a relief.”

“Perfectly,” Mace says evenly, and doesn’t bother trying to hide his hand now that they’ve noticed. It’s not a secret, this part.

“Rings?” Ayo asks, curious. “Is that what you were working on yesterday?”

“By request,” Razor says, though he doesn’t give anything more away. Before Ayo or Stak can push, though, Boil and Cody crash to the mats, drawing Mace's attention. He looks back, watching them grapple, and with two men who have the exact same size and build, it’s far more about skill than weight. Boil fights hard, but Cody rolls sideways, hauls his arm up and across with a jerk, and uses momentum to slam Boil right into the floor. He pins him there, saying something with a smirk of his own, and Boil makes a disgusted face but taps out.

Smoothly, Cody rolls back to his feet, even as a clone with a shaved head comes to help Boil up. Waxer is laughing, even though he’s mostly trying to hide it, and Boil makes a rude gesture at him but takes the proffered hand. Cody shakes his head at both of them, then steps off the mat, accepting a water bottle from Blowback, and claps him on the shoulder. Turns away, taking a swallow, then catches sight of Mace in the doorway and stops.

He looks like he doesn’t know whether to move forward and greet Mace or just salute, and the conflict is clear on his face. Mace doesn’t hesitate; he steps past Lightning Squadron and into the training hall. “Cody,” he says, deliberate, and Cody's expression shifts into something more settled.

“Mace,” he returns, and behind Mace Stak makes a high, offended sound. Razor hisses, and Mace rolls his eyes before he can help himself. It makes Cody laugh, at least, and he comes to a stop in front of Mace, studying his face.

“Not a secret, then,” he concludes.

Mace raises a brow at him. “That would rather defeat the purpose,” he says dryly. “I think your shift ended half an hour ago.”

“So did yours,” Cody counters. Pauses, clearly considering something, and then leans in.

Surprising, but—not entirely unexpected. Mace never doubted that Cody committing meant he’d follow through with it. He leans down enough for Cody to kiss him easily, light and quick enough to look familiar, and then straightens.

There’s a stunned silence all around them, and it’s spreading.

“I hope you know that I expect you to prevent your general from murdering me,” Mace tells Cody dryly, and Cody snorts.

“My general does whatever the hell he wants,” he says. “Don’t hold your breath.”

“If you want to be a widower, there are easier ways,” Mace informs him, and steps back. “Dinner?”

Cody casts a look around the training hall. “I think I threw enough shinies around for the night,” he says, and follows Mace towards the door.

There’s a blockade. Stak looks utterly bewildered, while Razor’s brows are practically touching his hairline. Brass is frowning, and Ayo has his arms crossed over his chest, and extremely unimpressed look aimed right at Cody.

“ _You_ might end up a widower before I can,” Cody mutters, but he nods to his batchmate. “Ayo.”

“Cody.” Ayo’s tone is light, but his expression isn't. “Looking good, vod.”

There's a moment of silence, and then Razor makes a discontented sound. “I thought the rings were for you and General Plo, sir,” he tells Mace. “Going by the scuttlebutt. The other one was for _Cody_?”

“Plo would be overwhelmed with joy to know that you were thinking of him when you made them,” Mace tells him. Pauses, and then asks, “Objections?”

The frown Cody aims at the trooper says there had better not be.

“Of course not, sir.” Razor folds his arms, just so happening to elbow Stak as he does. “Wedding rings?”

Mace inclines his head. “They were exactly what we thought we couldn’t find out here,” he says quietly, in thanks, and Razor’s expression eases.

“Happy to help, sir.”

“You're blocking the door,” Cody tells Ayo, raising a brow at him.

“Just want to give you my congratulations,” Ayo returns, immediate. He thumps Cody on the shoulder, and says, “You always did have good taste, vod. Keep it that way.”

Amused, Mace looks away to hide his expression. Cody's is all mild exasperation, and he thankfully doesn’t look offended. He just shrugs, and says, “It’s not about to change now.”

Ayo doesn’t say anything, just steps aside. Brass does, too, after a deliberate pause, and Stak is the last to clear the door. He looks from Cody to Mace, then grimaces and asks, “Do you know how much money you just lost a lot of brothers, Commander? Everyone thinks you’ve got a thing with Kenobi.”

Cody snorts. “I’d be too busy picking up his lost cloaks to enjoy it if we did,” he says, and Stak snickers.

“Come on, vod,” he tells Ayo, nudging him forward. “The shinies have seen how Ghost Company does things. Let’s get them used to how Lightning Squadron hits: twice as fast and twice as hard.”

Cody rolls his eyes, but follows Mace into the hall without looking back. “Sorry,” he says without looking at him. “I didn’t mean to make you come and get me.”

“I wanted to see how the training was going.” Mace turns his words over carefully for a moment, and then says, “You fight like Jango.”

It’s uncertain territory; he has no idea how the clones feel about him being the one to kill their genetic template, and he’s never wanted to bring it up enough to ask. Instead of offense or grief, though, what crosses Cody's face is surprise, then quiet pleasure.

“Really?” he asks. “Most of the trainers on Kamino used to work with him, but—they didn’t compare anyone to Jango except to tell us how terrible we were.”

“I only saw him fight briefly,” Mace says, “but you move in much the same ways.” Doesn’t add _you have the same weaknesses in your structure_ , because there’s no good way to say that and he can't think of a better way to phrase it, even if it’s a warning more than a condemnation.

Cody smiles a little, rubbing at the scar that curves around his eye. “Might keep me alive longer,” he says, not quite a joke even if it’s meant to be one. He pauses, glancing behind them, and says, “You know it’s going to be in every last corner of the ship by the time we’re done eating.”

“The only thing that outpaces a ship at hyperspeed is interesting gossip,” Mace says dryly. “Would you like me to request trays brought to my quarters again?”

Resigned, Cody shakes his head. “Hiding will make it worse. Besides, better if people know.”

Mace makes a sound of quiet agreement. “Obi-Wan was still on the comm with Master Luminara,” he says, keeping his gaze fixed ahead. “If we eat quickly, we can likely finish before they stop arguing over whose padawan is more skilled.”

Cody pauses, blinks. “Ahsoka?” he asks. “I think General Skywalker might object to Obi-Wan claiming her. Just slightly.”

“I've been told,” Mace says, perfectly bland, “that grand-padawans can evoke even more pride in their grandmasters than in their masters.”

There's another pause, and then Cody asks suspiciously, “Doesn’t General Billaba have a padawan of her own now? They were just deployed last month, weren’t they?”

Mace refuses to answer that, calling the lift without so much as blinking. When he steps in, Cody is grinning, just a little.

“I can just ask Obi-Wan,” he warns, and Mace grimaces.

“Obi-Wan embellishes,” he says, and Cody actually laughs.

“Of course,” he agrees, but not like he means it. Mace allows the blatant humoring to pass unremarked, since he’s feeling charitable, but it’s a very near thing.

“What,” Boil says blankly. “ _What_.”

Waxer is mildly alarmed by the way his voice cracks. Clapping him on the shoulder, he shakes him lightly, and offers, “The commander looked happy, at least?”

“ _What_?”

That’s been about the only thing he’s managed to say since the training hall. Giving up, Waxer leaves him to his food, instead offering a wave to Fives and Echo as they turn to look around the room. Fives immediately grins, heading for them with Echo a step behind, and he slides into the seat across from Waxer.

“You got an accommodations upgrade, too, huh?” Fives asks, digging into his food with an enthusiasm Waxer is pretty sure rations don’t warrant.

“General Kenobi wanted to keep Ghost Company with him,” Waxer says. “Same for your general and Torrent, right?”

“So we’ve heard,” Echo says, eyeing Boil. “All right there, vod?”

Boil gives him a blank look, very clearly not actually seeing him, and Waxer rolls his eyes. “We’re working on it,” he says. Spots movement out of the corner of his eye and halfway turns to face Obi-Wan as he approaches, looking distracted. “Evening, General!”

“Good evening, Waxer, Boil,” Obi-Wan says, and offers Fives and Echo a nod. “You're new to Torrent Company, yes?”

Fives’s eyes are a little wide, like he isn't used to being approached by generals, and it takes him a second to find his words. “I—yes, sir, we were stationed at the Rishi moon base, sir.”

Obi-Wan gives them a smile. “Ah, I believe Rex mentioned you. Good work at the base, and I'm glad you're with Anakin now.”

Echo flushes, and Fives beams. Waxer hides his snicker, and instead asks, “Is everything all right, General?”

Obi-Wan blinks, glancing down at him, and his expression is bemused. “I believe so. I was just looking for Rex, actually. A few 501st troopers were claiming that Master Windu was having a passionate affair with someone, and I wanted to make sure everything was all right.”

Waxer freezes, feeling caught. That—that sounds like Obi-Wan doesn’t _know_ , and while Waxer would walk barefoot over broken glass and hot coals for his general, Cody's his _brother_. There are no good decisions here.

“All right, sir?” he manages, swallowing.

Obi-Wan raises a brow at him. “Well, it’s hardly the usual sort of rumor to be spreading,” he says, amused. “Mace doesn’t generally invite such gossip, and I'm afraid that if too many of the 91st take offense they could space us all. It is their ship.”

Given how many of the 91st were in the training hall when Cody kissed General Windu, Waxer’s pretty sure that’s not something they need to be concerned about. A little desperately, Waxer casts around for a distraction, then says, “I think Captain Rex is staying with Commander Ponds’s quarters, sir.”

“Oh, thank you,” Obi-Wan says, pleased. “I had wondered when Kix said he wasn’t staying with the rest of Torrent. Have a good evening, gentlemen.” He inclines his head to the four of them, then turns on his heel and heads out of the mess.

Boil is staring at him, wide-eyed. Waxer ignores him.

“ _That’s_ quite the rumor,” Echo says, craning his neck to look after Obi-Wan. “I wonder who started it.”

“And I wonder who they think General Windu's having an affair with,” Fives laughs. “I bet it’s Commander Ponds.”

“It’s not,” Ponds says dryly, from right behind Waxer, and Fives chokes on his next bite. With a quiet snort, Ponds takes the seat next to Waxer, then gives him a sideways look and says, “Thanks. Waxer, right?”

“Yes, sir,” Waxer says, mildly relieved that Ponds apparently knows, at least. And wants to hide it from Obi-Wan, but—well. There's no winning with everything.

Ponds nods. “You were one of the troopers who found the back way into the Sep base on Ryloth. Good work.”

“That wasn’t us,” Waxer says quickly. “A Twi’lek youngling, Numa. She led us there and got us in. We just found her in one of the villages.”

Ponds accept the correction easily. “Still. I'm glad it worked.”

“Me too, sir,” Waxer says honestly. Pauses, and then asks carefully, “Uh, General Windu looks…less frightening today.”

With a snort, Ponds picks up his caf. “I think he slept well last night,” he says, which is mildly horrifying for lots of reasons Waxer doesn’t want to think about too closely. Chief among them being how _Commander Cody_ was probably the one to make him sleep well.

Boil groans and drops his head on the table, only just missing his tray.

“I think it’s sweet,” Waxer says determinedly, and ignores Boil’s resulting louder groan. Hesitates, and then says, “Uh. The general. Kenobi. He…”

“Heard the gossip,” Ponds says, which Waxer translates to roughly _he doesn’t have any idea what his commander is doing, or who_.

That _who_ being General Windu.

Waxer pauses, playing that moment in the training hall over in his head. It was…easy. Reserved, but then, that’s the commander all over; Waxer wouldn’t expect anything different of him, especially when the other half of the equation is even more stone-faced most of the time. But—General Windu hadn’t quite smiled in a way that was _definitely_ a smile to anyone else, and Cody had stepped close, and—

Maybe Waxer means it a little more than he intended to, that part where he thinks it was sweet.

“El-Les always said that gossip would do an army in,” he says, just a little dry, and Ponds smirks.

“I think I heard that, too,” he says, and then asks Fives, still red in the face and trying not to cough, “Need a medic, trooper?”

“No, sir,” Fives wheezes, and glares at Echo when he snickers.

If Cody was expecting an awkward morning of waking up together and figuring out routines, an early-morning meeting crushes those expectations to dust. General Secura sends an emergency message that she’s under attack, the 327th being harried by bombers in numbers they can hardly keep up with. It pulls Mace and Cody both out of bed, and there’s no time for honoring rituals; they're both dressed and on the bridge before even a hint of awkwardness can crop us.

“Grievous knows reinforcements are close,” Mace says grimly, watching the images Aayla’s able to send them flicker in midair. Another wing of bombers crosses the field, headed for the Republic cruisers as they watch, and he frowns deeply. “He’s giving up on holding the planet and focusing on the 327th.”

“A boon for us,” Obi-Wan says, though he looks little happier. “How long?”

“Seven hours,” Anakin says, tight with something between anger and viciousness. “Can she hold out that long?”

“Yes,” Mace says, with a steadiness that almost surprises Cody. “Aayla will be fine. And with Grievous’s distraction, retaking Livien Magnus will be far quicker than we anticipated.”

“What?” Anakin protests. “What about Aayla and her men? They're just big targets for Grievous right now—he has more ships and more firepower, he can destroy them before we ever retake the capital!”

“Bomber runs aren’t going to be enough to take out the 327th,” Mace counters, and it’s not cold, but it’s flat. He has his hands folded behind him, his eyes on the holograms, and he isn't wavering. “If we move to defend Aayla first, the people of Ord Radama will be vulnerable, and Grievous has proved many times that he doesn’t care to spare civilians.”

Anakin's expression tightens, mouth thinning. “If we don’t help the 327th, the Republic is going to lose a whole fleet of cruisers and thousands of men, not to mention _Aayla_.”

“Aayla would tell you to prioritize the people of Ord Radama,” Mace counters. “We’re fighting this war to save lives, Skywalker.”

“So we’re just going to abandon—”

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan says quietly. “No one is abandoning Aayla. But there are several million people on Ord Radama who are currently vulnerable to anything Grievous tries to do to them, and we need to save them.”

Anakin scowls, but nods curtly, and Cody can hear Mace's soft breath, though he can't pick out whether it’s irritation or relief that drives it. “Good,” Mace says. “We’ll move as planned. I hope you're prepared.”

Cody's troops are ready, and all the transports are prepped. All that’s left to do is sit around until the call comes. He grimaces to himself, meeting Rex's eyes over the table, and sees the same unhappy resignation there. Hurry up and wait’s a constant, it feels like, no matter the situation.

Obi-Wan pulls Anakin away, speaking quietly, and Cody takes the chance to pause next to Mace. Says, quiet enough that it hopefully won't be overheard, “Good luck.”

Mace pauses, then glances at him, and his eyes are dark. Cody can't help but remember the way he looked when he got up yesterday, the _not yet_ that felt like a warning. It prickles across his skin, makes nerves curl tight in his stomach, but Mace doesn’t offer another warning. Just says, quiet and maybe a little amused, “ _Ib'tuur jatne tuur ash'ad kyr'amur_.”

Cody can't help but snort. A good day for someone else to die indeed. “Grievous, hopefully,” he says, and Mace tips his head in agreement.

“Jedi don’t kill their prisoners,” he says, and looks back at the hologram table. “But we can hope for an interesting fight before that.”

There's an edge of darkness in his tone that Cody's never heard from him. It’s still perfectly controlled, still even, but—in a brother he might almost call it looking forward to a fight.

He’s only seen Mace fight from a distance, with a battle going on around them. Maybe this time he can pay a little more attention, he thinks, and reaches out. The bridge is too public for anything, and Cody doesn’t want to try to play up their marriage here. Mace accepts his hand, though, the light squeeze that clinks their rings together, and his gaze doesn’t waver.

Cody looks back for a long moment, still a little bewildered that he’s in this position, that it’s not as bad as he’d thought, that he’s _free_. Then he takes a breath, pulls away to put his helmet on, and gets moving.


	10. Chapter 10

They take back Ord Radama by morning.

Grievous’s forces aren’t ready for a direct assault. With their bombers harrying the 327th’s cruisers and Livien Magnus still holding strong against the siege, plus the assistance of the native Devlikk, the 501st manages to recapture the capital before Mace and Obi-Wan can even take back the last of the ordinance bunkers.

Mace catches sight of the first of the 501st transports with a mix of relief and annoyance, and cuts down a commando droid that’s about to take a shot at Ponds. “Commander,” he calls, and Ponds jerks around, glancing up. As soon as he sees the ships, his eyes widen, and he jerks his comm up, snapping orders to whoever is on the other end. Mace drives three more droids over the edge of the cliff they’re on with a hard Force-push, and concentrates for one moment and lifts a boulder from its place. It shudders, groans, but Mace sets his jaw, closes his fingers, and flings it sideways into the weakest point in the duracrete walls surrounding the bunker. There’s a crack, louder than there should be, and the boulder punches right through, sending sections of the wall crumbling in its wake.

With a rumble of engines, one of the smaller transports comes in close to the edge of the cliff, and Anakin leaps the space with ease, landing hard. The blue blade of his lightsaber deflects a handful of bolts as a group of troopers follow him, already firing, and Mace doesn’t sigh.

“Skywalker,” he says, straightening as Anakin approaches. “Livien Magnus?”

“Ahsoka and Aayla have things under control there,” Anakin says. “Grievous is here?”

“It looks that way,” Mace confirms, though they haven’t seen any trace of the cyborg yet. He motions Lightning Squadron forward, and the AT-RTs hurtle past, through the opening in the wall. Mace leaps after them, landing lightly on the other side, and hurls a group of droids back into a particularly sturdy section of duracrete, smashing them irreparably.

“Sir!” Razor shouts, taking a shot that knocks a droid off the top of the building. “General Kenobi's pinned down on the east side! Ghost Company’s taking heavy fire!”

Landing beside Mace, Anakin curses. “Couldn’t have stayed easy,” he mutters. “Fives, Kix, with me!”

Two troopers in blue-splashed armor hurry after him, and Mace takes a breath. Thinks about staying and helping Lightning, or going with Anakin to rescue Obi-Wan, and feels the certainty that he’s needed elsewhere wash over him.

“Commander,” he calls, and when Ponds turns to look at him again he says, “Get into the base and secure the depots. I'm going to help Ghost.”

“Yes, sir!” Ponds immediately brings his comm up, calling for the 91st to start their assault on the base, and Mace turns, picking up a run. Without hesitation, Anakin follows.

“Thought you’d need help,” he says, sounding pleased with himself, and hurtles the far wall in a long, twisting leap that he very obviously learned from Obi-Wan.

Mace rolls his eyes, and his jump is much more careful. He lands on top of the wall, then reaches back, and with a moment of concentration he lifts both of Anakin's troopers off their feet and up over the wall before he drops down next to them.

“Thanks, General,” the medic says, slightly out of breath.

Mace nods curtly, then keeps moving. He can hear the sounds of a fight around the wide-flung wing of the base, the hiss of a lightsaber, and he activates his own, sweeps low and fast and cuts a droid off at the knees. Jumps, a touch of the Force carrying him high, and comes down in the middle of a knot of super battle droids. They all turn on him, but Mace deflects a blaster with a flash of violet, ducks another, rises, and shoves his lightsaber right through the closest. It teeters, and he shoves it back, turns—

Crystalline structure, the expression of an object in the Force. Hard as steel everywhere, except—

Mace puts his fist through the weak point in the droid’s armor, cuts a third’s head off, and grabs the last one with the Force, sending it crashing into a droideka as it rolls to a stop behind Anakin. The droideka doesn’t even have time to get its shield up; the battle droid hurls it back, and Mace grabs them both, focuses hard.

A bolt drops. Then, like that released the flood, more rain down, and the droids crumple into pieces.

Satisfied, feeling it burn in his chest like victory, Mace sweeps another two droids off their feet, slashes through another knot as they take aim at Fives, and leaves Anakin to deal with the last handful he’s putting down as he rounds the edge of the gate. He’s right behind a solid wall of battle droids, and he sweeps through them, pushing though to where he can see Obi-Wan, Cody, and several troopers pinned down behind a crashed ground transport. There’s blaster-fire from above, though, and he reflects one bolt back up to take out a droid, then catches Anakin's troopers rounding the wall and orders, “Fives, take out the droids on the building.”

“Sir!” Fives falls back, lifting his blaster rifle, and Kix curses and shoots one of the battle droids approaching, then falls in to cover him. Mace spreads a hand even as he parries another shot, and takes a breath. The Force is still clouded here, and sight is hard, but Mace knows fighting, can feel the burn in his blood, and with a little more power, a little _finesse_ —

Ord Radama is a swamp world. Even up here, on a cliff build by the Republic to keep their bases secure, there are trees, tall and looming in the dawn. They bow and dip, and Mace sees the weakest point in their trunks, can tell the exact place where the dead tree slumped against the cliff face will break. One hard shove is all it takes, and the top of the tree rises, sharp limbs and wide trunk, and crashes full-force down on top of the ranks of droids.

“Mace!” Obi-Wan shouts, but Mace can't tell if it’s a warning or a greeting. He keeps moving either way, sidesteps a blaster bolt and lets a trio of super battle droids close in until they're perfectly within arms’ reach, then cuts them to pieces. Sweeps more battle droids out of his way, then hears the hiss and snap of a lightsaber’s ignition.

“Took you long enough,” he tells Anakin, who slashes through a super battle droid and shrugs.

“I was taking out the ones above us,” he says. “Behind you!”

Mace flips his lightsaber over, slamming it backwards through a droid’s head, then spins to counter another flurry of bolts. A green blade deeper into the melee means Obi-Wan’s found enough space to rejoin them, and Mace looks for his men, finds them returning fire as best they can from behind the transport.

“Grievous must be here,” he says. “His cruiser’s been destroyed. If he’s not on the planet he went down with it.”

“We’d never be that lucky,” Anakin says disgustedly. He ducks the swing of a blaster, kicks out the droid’s legs, and cuts its head off with a twist of his lightsaber. “Where’s the closest landing pad?”

Mace pulls up a memory of the map, then points south. “A ways into the swamp.”

Anakin meets his gaze. “Want to bet Grievous is turning tail?”

“No,” Mace says, dry, “because that’s a sucker’s bet.”

Anakin laughs, wild and reckless. “We can take him,” he says, and calls, “Torrent, this way!”

Kix and Fives follow as he makes for the wide road leading down into the swamp, and Mace sighs through his nose. Grievous likely has plenty of guards, _and_ a head start if he fled the second they started their attack. He cuts through the droid ranks, aiming for the flash of a green lightsaber, and gets there just as a super battle droid lifts its blaster. Mace blocks a blaster from the other direction, not even pausing as he shoves his fist through its throat and drops it to the ground.

“Sir!” Cody says, coming to his feet.

Behind him, Obi-Wan turns, then cuts down a pair of battle droids and asks, “Where’s Anakin?”

“Headed to stop Grievous,” Mace answers. “I'm going after him.”

Obi-Wan looks torn, but his gaze flickers to his men, to the base, and his mouth firms. “I’ll stay and sweep the base out,” he says. “Commander, go with him. You're the best shot here, and Grievous isn't impervious to blasters quite yet.”

“Sir,” Cody says, and waves to one of his men. The trooper waves back, acknowledging, and Cody gives Mace a nod.

Mace nods in return, then activates his comm even as he heads after Anakin at a run. “Commander Ponds, Skywalker and I are going after Grievous. He retreated to the landing pad to the south. Kenobi is taking the base from the east.”

“We’re almost through here, sir,” Ponds reports. “I’ll send another squad around to assist.”

“Thank you.” Mace slows slightly as they reach the edge of the trees, the glow of his lightsaber the only illumination in the close darkness.

“You actually keep your commander updated on your position?” Cody asks, quietly enough that Mace can only just hear it. The sweep of his blaster is wary, even at a run. “Can I get a transfer?”

Mace snorts. “I think that would be a conflict of interest,” he says dryly, and glances around them with a frown. Something itches, like eyes, and he rather doubts it’s the natives. Still, he keeps moving quickly, and ahead of them he thinks he catches a shout, oddly muffled by the trees. Reaches out—

Lunging sideways, he jerks Cody out of the way of a blaster, then sweeps his blade up in time to reflect the next. A droid goes down in a spray of sparks, and Mace brings a hand up, eyes narrowing. Feels the flare motion to their left, and sidesteps even as he grabs the droid, lifts it off the ground, and then closes his fist sharply.

The rattle of droid parts hitting the road is the only sound for a moment.

“Thank you,” Cody says, and reaches up to touch the visor of his helmet. “The landing pad’s just ahead, and the general’s already there.”

In trouble, likely. Mace nods and says, “Take the path, come up behind them.”

“Yes, sir,” Cody agrees, and keeps moving. Mace turns left, leaping into the swamp. Flips lightly across a stretch of murky water, lands carefully on a spur of land, and uses an edge of instinct to find a path straight towards the landing pad. Things stir in the darkness, but Mace passes them without pause, lands on the edge of built-up land, and slashes out. The Magna Guard turns, but too slow; Mace knows exactly where to strike, and he ducks the electrostaff and tears right through the droid. It collapses, bleeding sparks, and the other half of the pair meets Mace with its staff buzzing.

Behind the Magna Guard, Anakin curses, dodging the spin of one of Grievous’s lightsabers by a hair, then twisting to avoid the hit of another pair of Magna Guards. He can't keep up, though, and Grievous laughs, stepping back as his guards close in.

“You are not even worth my time, Skywalker,” he says, and turns with a flare of his cloak. Behind him, Anakin shouts with rage, but it jars sideways into pain as the electrostaff cracks him in the shoulder. One of his troopers cries out as he hits the ground, and then Fives is between the guard and Anakin, firing his blaster.

It’s not enough. Mace shoves his lightsaber through the guard’s torso, cleaving in in half in one hard swing, and then hurls one of the advancing guards back. Catches the second’s staff before it can hit Fives, twists, and kicks it back with a quick blow. The first is already rising, and—

A shot from a high-powered blaster rifle explodes its head in a spray of sparks, and even if it’s not enough to stop it, Mace takes the opening Cody gave him. He finds the shatterpoint, and with the Force like a fist in his grasp, he hits.

The droid crumples, crashing to the ground even as one of the waiting ships lifts off.

“ _No_ ,” Anakin snarls, shoving Kix aside to stagger to his feet, even though it takes him a moment to get there. He stumbles, steadies, and says, “We have to go after him!”

Normally, Mace would argue, would tell him to comm the cruisers and have them scramble starfighters. But—

They're at the very edge of the Radama Void, and the Stygian Caldera is just beyond it. Grievous alone, in a ship that small, has every chance of slipping right through the ranks of ships above and getting exactly where they don’t want him to be.

“Agreed,” Mace says grimly, and deactivates his lightsaber. Clipping it to his belt, he heads for the other ship that’s waiting, eyes it for a moment, and then reaches out with the Force. It’s easy enough to lower the ramp; the make is familiar, and Mace knows where the controls are, even without seeing them directly.

Anakin is up the ramp as soon as it’s close to the ground, heading for the cockpit. Mace waves Fives and Kix up ahead of him, then turns to meet Cody as he jogs out of the swamp. “Nice shot,” he says.

Cody smirks faintly. “Thanks, sir. Going after him?”

Mace inclines his head, even as the engines start. “Are you coming, or returning to Obi-Wan?” he asks.

Cody's smile pulls into something wry. “General Kenobi would be sad if I let his former padawan get himself killed without at least trying to help,” he says.

“Anything to spare you that,” Mace says, and follows him into the ship. The ramp closes behind them, and he comes to a stop with a hand on the pilot’s chair, watching warily as Anakin takes them up. Pauses for a moment, and then activates his comm. “This is Windu. Grievous is fleeing the planet, and General Skywalker and I are in pursuit in a stolen ship. If you get a clear shot, take it.”

“Yes, sir!” a pilot acknowledges, and Anakin smirks.

“Gonna get that shot before me, Broadside?” he asks.

“You gonna let me, General?” the pilot retorts, and Anakin laughs. Atmosphere falls away, and he glances over his shoulder.

“I have to let you win sometimes,” he says cockily. “Fives, can you use this thing’s guns?”

Fives ducks past Mace, sliding into the copilot’s seat, and runs through the controls. “Yes, sir,” he says with a grin. “It’s a little newer than I'm used to, but I can figure it out.”

“The Seps get all the nice stuff,” Anakin complains lightheartedly.

Mace curls his fingers into the chair and keeps his mouth closed on the reprimand he wants to voice. Instead, he switches frequencies, and asks, “Aayla, Ahsoka, how is the fighting in your position?”

“Finished, I think,” Ahsoka says after a moment. “The Devlikk helped us, and they're taking charge of the cleanup.”

“The last of the bombers are being taken care of, too,” Aayla confirms. “You have eyes on Grievous, Master?”

Mace traces the path of Grievous’s ship, the arc heading around the last planet in the system, and frowns. “He’s headed for the edge of the nebula,” he says curtly. “Whether he means to cross it into old Sith territory or simply lose us in the turbulent space, I'm not sure.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Anakin says. “He’s not going to be in the air long enough for us to find out either way.” The ship rockets forward, pace redoubling, but Grievous’s ship twists downward into a dive, vanishing behind a rocky moon. With a curse, Anakin follows, and Cody grabs for one of the straps on the wall as their ship lurches.

Behind the moon, the Radama Void looms, depthless black, and on the far side of it is a thin ring of red, like fire. Grievous is heading straight for it, and there's no way to cut him off.

“Mopakky,” Anakin mutters. “He’s faster than this bucket of bolts.”

Mace checks his comm, ready to contact Broadside or any of the other starfighters, but all he gets is a faint crackle. Interference, likely from the nebula, and he grimaces, then reaches out with the Force, intending to touch Obi-Wan’s mind, familiar enough to be easy to find.

Only shadows meet him, and nothing else.

“Mace?” Cody murmurs, watching him with concern.

Mace drops his hand, unease curling through his gut. “I can't reach Obi-Wan,” he says. “Or Aayla. And there’s interference on the comms.”

“What?” Kix asks, alarmed. He lets go of the back of Fives’s chair long enough to test his own comm, and grimaces when he doesn’t get a response. “Sir, if we’re completely cut off from the rest of the battalion—”

“We’re not cut off, we’ve got a ship,” Anakin says, stubborn. “And Grievous is _getting away_.”

“Anakin,” Mace starts.

“No,” Anakin says, and leans forward. “I can catch him, see, he’s turning—”

Turning along the edge of the Caldera, skirting a particularly dark spot, and—

Punching right through.

“Slag,” Anakin says, and their ship races for the same spot.

“No,” Mace says sharply, and grabs Anakin's shoulder. “Anakin, turn us around. The Caldera isn't a thing we should brave—”

“I can do it,” Anakin counters, and the first stomach-churning lurch comes as red light washes over the ship. Kix yelps, almost thrown off his feet, but Mace catches him, hauls him over and up against the wall next to Cody, who grabs him. The whole ship judders, like it’s about to tear apart, and Fives makes a sound of alarm, grabbing for the arms of his chair.

“General—” he tries.

“We’re in range, take the shot!” Anakin orders, and Fives grabs for the controls again.

“ _Skywalker_ ,” Mace snaps, but he’s not about to knock out their pilot in the middle of a nebula. “Skywalker, turn around, that’s an _order_.”

Anakin ignores him, and the ship twists sideways, jerks, shudders back straight. Fives hisses something, but takes the shot at Grievous’s half-visible craft, and misses as their ship jars sideways in a long, lurching slide. Eyes widening, expression almost betrayed, Anakin tries to haul them back straight, but it doesn’t work.

Distantly, distinctly, something cracks.

Mace takes a breath in, lets it out. “Jump us to hyperspace,” he says calmly, and touches Fives's shoulder. The trooper grimaces, pale, but doesn’t lean away.

Another juddering wrench makes Anakin hiss, and he says, “I'm a little busy keeping us in the air right now!”

Cody sighs, somewhere behind Mace's shoulder, and Mace rolls his eyes. Dropping to his knees to stay stable, he inputs the coordinates, aiming them for where the _Endurance_ is waiting, and says, “Go.”

“With pleasure,” Anakin says, and Mace tamps down on his annoyance as Anakin leans over, hitting a series of switches. Leans back, flipping a lever down, and says “Okay, so, next time the evil cyborg wants to shake his ship to pieces in a nebula I’ll just let him, so—”

The familiar hum of the hyperdrive engaging washes over the ship, just as a particularly hard shudder practically slams the whole ship sideways. Mace, halfway upright, is thrown completely off his feet, and Cody shouts. A hand grabs his tunic, a body cushions his impact with the wall, and Mace pushes up straight, not bothering to step away from Cody's arm around his waist holding him upright. Looks, and—

For one fractured second, the nebula blurs, stars becoming visible in patchy streaks. Then, like a tow-line pulling tight, something jerks, and they come out of hyperspace with a sickening jolt, the ship flipping end over end as it tumbles down towards gravity. Mace gets a half-second impression of a dark planet, then darker sky above whirling past. Grabs for the Force as the plant surges, nearing too fast, and it comes. It comes instantly, eagerly, surging out with his will, and Mace aims for momentum, for their ship, for the ground that’s hurtling up to meet them—

Impact, and then darkness.

Depa surges up out of sleep with a cry, every nerve bright with a pain that isn't physical. Her head _aches_ , and she clutches at it with both hands, hissing out a breath, trying to fight down the pain, but—

There’s a ringing, raw-edged emptiness in her head that hasn’t been there in as long as she’s been conscious, and it _hurts_.

“Master!” a voice cries beside her, and small hands catch hers, pull, give up and just try to hold. “Master, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

Caleb, Depa realizes, and tries to gather herself. Her padawan needs her. Her padawan is worried.

But there’s only emptiness in her head, when always before she’s been able to feel a presence. A warm presence, as steady as stone and kind as rainfall, but now it’s _gone_.

“Grey!” Caleb calls when Depa can't find the words to answer. “Grey, something’s wrong, I can't—”

More voices, distant, then coming closer quickly. A figure hits the ground beside her on their knees, and Grey says, “General? You’re all right, General, we’re here, everyone’s safe.”

“No,” Depa breathes, and Grey goes still. “No, they're not. My master is _gone_.”

Caleb's indrawn breath is harsh and horrified. “Master _Windu_?” he asks. “He can't be!”

“I’ll comm Command,” Grey says, rising to his feet. “They’ll be able to give us his last deployment—”

“Ord Radama,” Depa says without hesitation, and finally manages to lift her head. The pain is receding, like the fading sting of a rubber band that broke when she stretched it too far. There’s nothing that can _break_ a mental tether like that, though, not that Depa has ever heard of. This was a clean cut, their bond sliced through, and if she didn’t know better, she’d think that it was death that caused it.

That wasn’t death, though. It was something entirely different, because Depa knows, bone-deep and immediate, that Mace is still alive.

She takes a breath, smooths her braids back over her shoulders, then rises to her feet. With a sound of alarm, Caleb scrambles up after her, grabbing her arm, and says, “Master! Should you be standing?”

“The commander’s right,” Grey agrees, rising as well, and he hovers close like he’s prepared to catch her if she faints. “Something’s wrong, General. We can get the medic—”

Depa snorts. “I’m fine,” she says. “It was mental, not physical. And beyond that, we have to go.”

“Go?” Caleb asks. Blinks, and then says, “To Ord Radama? But if something there killed Master Windu—”

“He’s not dead,” Depa says evenly, and leans down to collect her lightsaber and discarded cloak. “Commander Grey, I’ll leave things in your hands—”

“With all due respect, sir,” Grey says evenly, “Captain Styles can take charge here. I'm coming with you.”

Depa frowns, looking from Caleb's wide-eyed worry to the stubborn set of Grey’s mouth. “Commander, I can't ask you to abandon your post,” she says softly.

“You can't ask me to abandon my general, either,” Grey says, and turns. “I’ll ready a ship and let the men know. Excuse me, sir.”

Breathe in. Breathe out. Depa closes her eyes for a long moment, then opens them to Caleb's wary gaze trained on her face.

“You felt him disappear?” Caleb asks after a moment.

“I felt something take him,” Depa corrects, because there’s a world of difference between those two things. She touches his shoulder, just lightly, and says, “Get your cloak, Caleb. It’s getting hot, but you might need it in space.”

Caleb blinks, then frowns at her. “Master? It’s _cold_. Soot said it was about to snow.”

Depa pauses, caught off guard, and looks around. She can see her breath misting in the air, but—

At the same time, it feels hot, humid. Like if she opens her eyes she’ll be back on Haruun Kal, in the middle of the jungle, the air so thick it’s hard to breathe. “Oh,” she whispers, and reaches desperately, recklessly, out into the darkness, searching for some sign that Mace is still out there.

All that answers her is shadows, choking-dark, and nothing else.


	11. Chapter 11

Pain drags Cody into consciousness, full of teeth. 

For an instant his brain doesn’t want to work. The world greys out as he opens his eyes, slips towards black, and the ache pulled tight around his bones redoubles sharply enough to make his vision spin. He groans, tries to turn his head, and finds twisted metal in his way, digging into his cheek. 

That’s startling enough to make him focus, and it takes a moment, but the world swims back into something clear. 

The silence hits him first. There’s an eerie hush to everything, a heavy quiet that feels like eyes in the darkness, something waiting to spring. The air is hot and thick, so humid it feels like breathing soup, and it’s dim. Dim like twilight, on the very edge of nightfall, and—

A flash of lightning scatters brilliance over them, and the warped remains of the ship come clear for half an instant. 

They _crashed,_ Cody thinks, thoughts connecting, and with a groan he pushes himself up as best he can, shoving at the debris covering him. Another flare of lightning illuminates the crash site, and it’s enough for Cody to see the shape of the thing pinning him: a section of the interior roofing, scorched like it met atmosphere. 

That was a hell of a drop, and a hell of an impact. Cody's honestly surprised they're not all paste on the ground right now, honestly. 

With a crash, the sheeting spills sideways, and Cody drags himself to his feet with a wince, looking for any other survivors. Wants to panic, but won't let himself; the only thing to focus on is getting to whoever needs help, then finding a way off this planet. Wherever it happens to be. 

“Commander!” a relieved voice says, and a moment later a body is under Cody's arm, familiar and steady. Kix helps him stagger over a section of swampy ground, away from the worst of the wreckage, and lowers him down to slump against the wide, smooth trunk of a tree. Instantly, the medic drops to one knee, tilting Cody's head to the side to check his skull with careful hands. “Sir, are you all right? Anything broken?”

“Our ship,” Cody says dryly, but pushes his hands away a moment later. “I'm fine, just sore. You okay?”

Kix's expression twists. “I’ve got a bruise or two, that’s all. General Windu protected me, I think. With the Force.”

 _Mace,_ Cody thinks, and immediately struggles towards his feet. Mace and Anakin are both somewhere in the wreck, and he needs to find them, help them—

“Easy, Commander!” Kix says, and catches him, pushing him back down. “I’ve been awake since we hit, I already found them.” He points to Cody's left, to a mostly-clear patch of ground, where Fives, Anakin, and Mace are all laid out. Cody looks them over quickly, and—Anakin's got some severe bruising, and there’s a gash in Mace's head that’s been covered with bacta, while Fives has a lump on his skull that Cody can see from here. But they’re all breathing, and they’ve all been taken care of. 

Mace protected their medic first and foremost. It’s a perfectly logical thing to do, but Cody remembers that awful spinning fall, the speed of it, and—in those handful of moments Mace saw they were crashing, worked out who was most valuable in that instant, and acted. 

“Heck,” he mutters, dropping his head back against the trunk. 

Kix snorts. “You can say that again,” he agrees, turning to look back at the crash. Pauses, and then says, “It _should_ have killed all of us. But the impact barely even left a crater.”

“The Force, maybe,” Cody says, which is complete guesswork, but feels right. If Mace was quick enough to keep Kix from getting more than a couple of bumps, he was probably quick enough to cushion their landing somehow, too, or Anakin was. Cody's seen his general jump off enough high things and land on his feet without so much as a wince to know Jedi have some sort of technique for that.

Kix's smile is wry. “That’s what I thought, too.” He sits back on his heels, raising his head, and says, “Maybe the Force can tell us where we are.”

Cody looks up too, and he has to swallow at the sight of the blanket of black clouds blocking the sun, the flickers of pale lightning that are continuous enough to act as light for the world below. Thunder rumbles, a dark, distant counterpoint that spreads and then falls silent again, but beyond that, Cody can't hear anything. 

“Not a planet I know,” he says, on the edge of grim, and wonders what the likelihood of the place being inhabited is. Not great, if there aren’t already people here. The galaxy’s got a lot of uninhabited backwaters, though, and if their aborted jump to hyperspace dropped them on one of those, getting off it is going to be a trial and a half. Especially with the ship reduced to a pile of scrap and not much else. 

“Maybe one of the generals will know it,” Kix says, determinedly optimistic, and drags his medkit closer to fish out painkillers. “Take them or you're going to be too sore to move,” he says, and drops them in Cody's hand. Cody grimaces, but swallows them down, then gets to his feet. When Kix makes to protest, frowning, Cody raises a hand. 

“We need to get as many supplies out of the wreck as possible,” he says. “I don’t know this planet, but it’s a jungle, and that means it’s probably going to rain at some point. And we should have weapons handy. There's no telling what’s out here.”

Kix doesn’t look happy about it, but he rises to his feet as well, shouldering his kit again. “I haven’t seen anything,” he says. “If there is wildlife out here, the crash might have scared them away.”

“Hopefully,” Cody mutters, because in no mood to deal with hungry fauna right now. Carefully, he picks his way back down into the shallow crater, looking for any familiar sections of ship. There are a few, but nothing immediately useful, and Cody sets aside promising-looking pieces of tech he unearths and keeps moving. Kix matches him, helping him shift the larger pieces out of the way, and they clear a path back towards the remains of the cabin. It’s on its side, torn like someone tried to rip it in two, with a lot of the plating gone and a piece of metal driven through one wall like a spear. 

There’s blood on it. Just a smear, but—this must be where Mace hit his head, Cody realizes, and feels it twist like unease in his chest. A few inches in the wrong direction and it could have killed him. 

It’s several feet from there that Cody finds his lightsaber, gold and electrum bright even in the tangle of twisted metal. Instinct has Cody picking it up and clipping it to his own belt before he can overthink the move, and when he realizes he pushes the thought down and keeps going. Mace isn't Obi-Wan, hasn’t allowed Cody to touch his lightsaber, and Cody knows that for Jedi lightsabers are as important as names to clones, but—it will be fine. Hopefully. 

“Sir,” Kix calls, and Cody turns in time to catch his blaster rifle as Kix tosses it over. Just having it in his grasp again is a relief, and Cody runs a quick check over the various pieces, then brings it up, testing the sight. Lowers it, letting out a pleased breath, and nods his thanks to Kix. 

“Any more where that came from?” he asks, heading over to help shift the tangle of smashed seats. 

“Mine,” Kix says, and pulls it from underneath a piece of buckled deck plating. Grimaces at the battered casing, but does his own check and then slings it across his back. “If this is where the wall was, and nothing got thrown around too much, supplies should be somewhere along here.”

Cody doesn’t bother pointing out that it’s not a Republic ship, but a Separatist one, and the Grievous definitely didn’t need supplies beyond a battery or two. Kix probably knows that already, but—better to look than just give up. He follows the edge of the deck, looking for the emergency supply hatch, and finds it twisted open, contents scattered across the dirt outside. 

“Better than nothing,” he says, and Kix nods, relief clear. 

“I don’t think I'm ready to trust anything in this jungle, as far as food goes,” he says. “When I woke up, the mushrooms were glowing.”

Cody snorts quietly. “General Kenobi already proved to me that eating weird mushrooms was a bad idea,” he says.

“By doing it?” Kix asks, caught between horror and amusement. 

“How else?” Cody asks dryly. “He’s just like Skywalker, but he hides it better.”

“Looks like the commander’s going that route, too,” Kix agrees, and slides the last of the ration bars into his kit. Cody has the other half of them; putting all of their supplies in one place seems like a bad idea. 

“Tano? Yeah, she had a streak of that in her already, and General Skywalker’s making it worse.” Straightening up, Cody looks around them, into the thick jungle, and frowns. “Was it darker earlier?” 

Kix nods. “By a lot. The only light was the lightning and the mushrooms.” He pulls a face, rubbing at the bruise curving over his cheekbone, and says, “I have no idea how long a rotation is here, but it’s about as light as I've seen it right now.”

Meaning they're going to be headed towards night eventually, and Cody doesn’t like the idea of it getting _darker._ It’s already dim enough that the thought of no light at all, plus the cover of the trees and the clouds, makes the back of Cody's neck itch. Anything could be lurking in the jungle, from Seppies to native monsters. If there are sentient natives, there’s no guarantee they’re friendly, either. 

Before he can say as much, though, some medic’s sense has Kix spinning on his heel. In an instant he’s back across the newly-formed clearing, dropping to his knees as Mace stirs. “Hold still, General Windu,” he says quickly. “You hit your head when we landed.”

“Landed,” Mace repeats, and opens his eyes as Cody makes his way closer. “That’s a generous interpretation.”

Cody snorts before he can help himself, crouching down on Mace's other side so he’s not looming over him. “Could have said _set down_ if it would make you feel better,” he says. Wonders, belatedly, if he should add _sir,_ but the way Mace's gaze flicks to him is steady, unoffended, and Cody breathes through the urge to apologize. 

Mace's eyes slide closed, and he winces faintly, then carefully pushes up on his elbow. Kix hovers worriedly, but when Mace doesn’t seem to have any trouble with that, Kix lets him ease the rest of the way up to sitting without protesting. “I should have expected this,” Mace says, and Cody frowns. Before he can object, though, Mace adds, “Skywalker’s odds of crashing a ship are the highest in the Order.”

Swallowing a laugh, Cody sinks back on his heels. “Probably the highest in the GAR, too,” he says. “Everything in one piece?”

Mace inclines his head, then carefully puts a hand up to feel the edges of the bacta on his shaved skull. “You're both all right?”

“Thanks to you, sir,” Kix says quietly. “Thank you.”

“Having you in one piece meant the rest of us would end up that way.” Mace glances over at Fives and Anakin, and then asks, “They're—?”

“Fine,” Kix confirms. “Mostly. Fives's head got a bit rattled inside his helmet, and General Skywalker got thrown clear and into a tree, but there’s nothing broken that I couldn’t fix.”

“For a crash landing without any power, we didn’t hit too hard,” Cody says, and Mace looks at him, raising a brow. 

“Too much momentum even a Jedi can't deal with,” Mace says, and pushes up to his feet. Cody rises with him, ready to grab his arm if he’s unsteady, but he doesn’t so much as waver. “But I could at least slow us before we hit.”

“It’s appreciated,” Cody says dryly, and ignores the odd look Kix gives him. “Any idea _where_ we hit, though?”

Mace's gaze sweeps the ripped-up trees from their landing, the dark jungle beyond, then rises. For a long moment he takes in the near-constant lightning above them, the darkness of the clouds, and he frowns. 

“No,” he says at last. “Not immediately.”

Cody supposes that even a Jedi can't know all of the Republic’s million-and-change planets by sight. Assuming they're still in the Republic. He’s trying not to think about what will happen if they're not. The Unknown Regions are vast, and there's nothing to say that a hyperdrive malfunction couldn’t have dumped them there, especially with how close they were to the edge of the Outer Rim. 

Deliberately, Cody takes a breath, setting those thoughts aside. They're not helpful right now. “I’m not much of a mechanic, but I pulled together some scraps that might have come from the communications array. General Skywalker might be able to do something with them when he wakes up.”

Mace inclines his head. “He’s a skilled engineer,” he says, which doesn’t quite manage to hide the undertone of _I would very much like to strangle him_ that sneaks in. Cody muffles a laugh with a cough, and when he lifts his head Mace just raises a brow at him without commenting. 

“Want us to scout the area?” he asks, rather than try to explain himself. Glances at Kix, who’s moved on to checking Anakin again, and amends, “I can scout. There might be a trail or a road close by, or a settlement.”

“I can at least do that much,” Mace says, and sinks back down to the ground on his knees, resting his hands on his thighs. “There are no minds in our immediate vicinity except animals, but I might be able to reach someone.”

Cody hesitates, but… “It was the nebula interfering earlier?” he asks. He hadn’t thought the Force could function like a comm transmission, but if the energy of the nebula can disrupt it—

“Not the Caldera,” Mace says, eyes closed. “Not directly. But the worlds beyond it were once the center of the Sith Empire, and the darkness lingers there.”

Something cold threads down Cody's spine, sharp contrast to the humid air. Sith. A whole _empire_ of Sith. Clearly it’s no longer in existence, but—the thought of it alone is enough to make Cody unsettled. How many planets were part of that empire? How great are the odds that their hyperspace jump didn’t carry them more than a short distance, dropping them right in hostile space? 

Probably good, Cody thinks, resigned. He’s getting used to Jedi luck at this point, but ending up crashing face-first into the most dangerous things in the galaxy is never pleasant when it’s happening. 

He wants to ask more about the Sith Empire, the Caldera, whatever darkness was blocking Mace before, but just like the other night, Mace's breaths are evening out, his expression smoothing into quiet ease. Cody watches him for another moment, then steels himself and steps away, sweeping the area carefully. Mace will probably notice any threats before he can, but—

He couldn’t reach Obi-Wan before. What if that same force interferes now, keeping him from seeing a danger before it’s right on top of them?   
Cody's hands itch for his blaster, but he contains the urge and leaves it slung over his shoulder. There's no movement in the jungle, nothing to jump at just yet, and he can contain his twitchiness until he’s given a reason not to. 

Instead of dwelling, he heads for Kix, who’s applying more bacta to Anakin's face. The bruises and long burn are already starting to fade, and Anakin's expression is set into a deeper frown than it was a moment ago, like he’s uncomfortable. Hopefully he’ll wake up soon, Cody thinks. Two Jedi would probably help solve this problem. Even if it’s Anakin disobeying orders that got them into it. 

Not that Cody's surprised about that. He’s served alongside the 501st _enough—and_ heard enough of Rex's horror stories—to know that Anakin tends to take orders as suggestions when he thinks he’s right. Which is most of the time, in Cody's experience. In Obi-Wan’s, too, judging by all the exasperation that gets aimed at Anakin after missions. 

“Any idea when they’ll wake up?” Cody asks quietly. 

Kix doesn’t look up from his work. “It’s hard to tell with head wounds sometimes, but hopefully soon. Anakin's already showing some response, and Fives tried to smack me when I was putting bacta on his head, so they're coming around.”

“Good,” Cody says on a breath, then rises to his feet again and turns, disquiet itching at him. Or maybe that’s just the silence; the hush is still heavy, pervasive. Cody's used to cruisers and battlefields, and the absence of other sounds here is eerie. 

“I didn’t see any spaceports as we were coming down,” Kix says after a moment, and his voice is faintly tense, but controlled. “Or lights. Maybe we’re just on the wrong side of the planet or something, or I missed it, but…”

But. If the planet’s uninhabited, there’s little chance that they’ll be able to comm for help, and if Mace can't reach someone through the Force, they won't be able to call for rescue that way either. Cody doesn’t answer for a long moment, weighing his responses, and then says, “General Skywalker’s good at piecing together weirder things than a comm unit from scrap.”

Kix smiles, just a little. “That’s true,” he says, more easily, and Cody snorts. 

“We just have to keep the generals from strangling each other and we should be fine,” he says, not bothering to lower his voice. Kix flashes him a horrified look, but from behind him there’s a snort. A pebble very clearly levitates itself up to Cody's eye-level, sways there like a threat, and then drops back to the ground. 

“That could have been your skull it hit,” Mace says, unimpressed, and Cody very carefully doesn’t smirk. 

“It’s a pebble,” he points out. 

“I could put that pebble through the trunk of a tree.”

Cody pauses, considering that, and then gives in. “Maybe save that for the first thing that tries to eat us.”

“You seem very sure that something will,” Mace says, and when Cody turns, he’s watching Cody closely, expression on the edge of unreadable. 

Cody gives him a crooked smile. “You're sure something _won't?”_

Something rueful slides over Mace's features, and he concedes that with a tip of his head. “Eyes open,” he says dryly, and sinks back into meditation. 

Great. Cody sweeps another careful look over the jungle and tries to judge whether or not it’s getting darker. Wonders, too, when the lightning overhead is going to give way to rain, or if it will at all. 

Hell. He wasn’t exactly expecting their recapture of Ord Radama to go smoothly, but he didn’t sign up for chasing Grievous into a Sith nebula and getting stranded on a creepy jungle planet, either. 

Just once, it would be nice if things didn’t immediately swing to the worst possible outcome every time there's a plan involved. 

  
The Force here feels _wrong._

Mace’s unease is a heavy thing, large and sharp like alarm even if there’s no immediate threat. He tries to breathe through it, to filter it out and release the clouding edge of emotion into the Force around him, but—releasing emotion requires understanding it, and Mace can’t understand this. 

Anakin is having unquiet dreams, and they curl along the edges of Mace’s senses like vines full of stinging thorns. 

With a flicker of annoyance aimed inward, Mace shuts out the edges of other thoughts, focuses. Less meditation than simply a routine to quiet his thoughts, the pattern of breaths comes naturally, settles him. The mental muscle memory is simple to fall back on, and Mace lets his senses spread out, a long, slow seep across the planet’s surface. 

It still doesn’t feel right. Like it’s braced, _twisted,_ and the vibrations of it wash coarse and unsettling across Mace’s skin, a metal-against-metal screech inaudible to the physical ear. Mace tries to press through it, to relax more, to ease into the nexus of it, but—

The Force here is a discordant note, and it’s overwhelming the melody beyond it. 

Grimly, deftly, Mace keeps looking regardless. He sweeps the jungle, catching the simple instinct-emotion flicker of animal minds, the set, aged weight of old paths where sentients once walked. Notes them, moves on, but if there are other minds close to their crash site Mace can’t sense so much as a trace of them. 

Finally, displeased, Mace opens his eyes, letting the tangle of uprooted trees and twisted metal fade back into reality around him. It’s darker than it was, and there’s a faint glow from further into the trees, low and luminous and ghostly. Some sort of bioluminescent flora, he decides after a moment, setting it aside as something to keep an eye on that isn’t immediately threatening. Cody is sorting through the wreckage, and Kix is sitting cross-legged beside Anakin, frowning down at his scanner. 

“He’s all right,” Mace says quietly, making the medic twitch hard, head snapping towards Mace like he’s braced for a threat. Mace gives him a second to recover, to see that there isn’t one, and then says, “He’s dreaming, but he’ll wake soon.”

Kix pauses for a moment, then nods and puts the scanner aside. “Thanks, sir,” he says. “I keep looking for something I must have missed—Fives has a concussion, but General Skywalker should be fine.”

Mace weighs how to answer that, debates his words. Then, careful, he says, “The Force is unsettled here, and Anakin has a deep connection to it. I would assume that’s why he’s still not conscious.”

Kix’s face screws up, and Mace can _feel_ the disparaging comment he wants to make. Amused, he raises a brow at him, and Kix lets out an aggrieved sigh. “I can’t fix the Force,” he says after a moment. 

“No,” Mace agrees, and tries to keep his humor in check. “Anakin will work it out for himself eventually.” Glancing over at the clone trooper on the ground, he pauses, and then says, “Fives is waking.”

Kix blinks, then turns immediately to Fives, putting a hand on his shoulder and reaching for his medkit. “Stay down, vod,” he says, even as Fives groans. “You hit your head when the ship wrecked, just stay still for a minute.”

“Do you have to talk so _much?”_ Fives complains groggily, putting a hand to his head with a grimace. Kix pulls it back down, tipping Fives’s head up to check his pupils. 

“Yeah,” Kix says, unimpressed. “You only hear about a tenth of what I say anyway.”

Fives rolls his eyes, then winces. “We crashed?” he asks, sitting up and ignoring Kix’s exasperated sigh. 

“Spectacularly,” Mace says dryly. He looks Fives over for a moment, something he can’t quite identify tugging at the edges of his mind, but focusing on the sensation doesn’t yield any answers. Setting it aside, he says, “I don’t know the planet, but we all seem to be intact.”

“Even if the ship isn’t,” Cody says, approaching with a handful of slightly scorched pieces of equipment and an extra blaster. He passes the blaster to Fives, who looks it over quickly and then slings its strap over his shoulder in an automatic motion. 

Trained from their first moment of awareness to be soldiers, Mace thinks, and closes his eyes for a long second. He’s never forgotten why he and Cody are doing this, but—the reminder is always stark in his chest when he pays attention. 

“There’s no trace of native sentients close by,” he says, and Cody frowns. “There is a road to the north, however.”

That doesn’t make Cody look all that much happier. Before he can say anything, though, Fives offers, “Roads mean people, right, sir? Maybe we can bum a ride back to the front.”

“Assuming they have spaceworthy ships,” Cody says grimly. 

“And,” Mace adds quietly, “assuming that it isn’t a deserted planet.”

Cody’s gaze flickers back to him, and he pauses for a moment, then asks, “You think we’re still inside the Caldera?”

Mace sorts through his potential responses, seeking one that won’t alarm without reason. “According to legend,” he finally settles on, “it was much harder to get out of the Empire than into it. The fact that we were only in hyperspace for a few moments makes me think breakwater of the nebula stopped us before we could escape.”

“And sent us off course,” Cody concludes, and rubs a hand over the side of his face. Mace can see that he understands the implications; even if they can get off the planet, they won’t be able to jump to hyperspace and get out of Sith space so easily. Instead, they’ll have to navigate the nebula itself, and hope their ship doesn’t break up from the force of it. 

“Kriff,” Fives mutters, and ducks his head, hiding his face. “Is this how all the general’s plans tend to go?”

“Welcome to the 501st,” Kix says, clapping him lightly on the shoulder. “Glad to have you, vod.”

“If we are within the borders of the old Empire,” Mace says, unwilling to leave the air so heavy, “we’ll almost certainly be able to find transmission equipment, though it may need a boost to get past the Caldera.”

Cody nods, breathing out. “Better than hitting a planet without anything,” he says. “Besides, it’s not like General Kenobi and General Secura don’t know where we went. They’ll be working at things from their end, too.”

That, at least, makes Fives lift his head. “And we have two Jedi,” he says, and gives Mace a grin. “I have to say I like those odds, sir.”

He’s still all but a shinie, the markings on his armor fresh, the plastoid itself almost entirely bright white. Mace feels a flicker of something that’s almost like what rose when he met Depa in the creche after years apart, felt her desperate hope that he’d choose her as his padawan. It’s…startling. He’s fond of all the clones who serve with the Jedi, but—

This is something different. A push, almost, but the Force here is so strange and off that Mace can’t tell what it’s meant to tell him. 

Deliberately, Mace folds the emotion away to consider more closely later, and says, “You and your brothers add to those odds as well, Fives.”

Fives’s grin brightens, and Cody snorts softly. “Don’t let it go to your head,” he warns, thumping Fives lightly on the shoulder. “He’s talking about Kix.”

“He said _and,”_ Fives protests, ducking away. “That was definitely _and!”_

Mace contains a flicker of humor, looking down as he feels the first curl of awareness touch his mind. “Anakin,” he says.

Anakin makes a face he should probably be too old for, opening his eyes. “I feel like someone dunked me in bacta and then didn’t wash me off,” he complains. 

“You’re welcome, sir,” Kix says dryly. 

“Ugh,” Anakin mutters, but he sits up carefully, looking around. The wince when he takes in the wreckage of the ship is almost enough to make Mace feel better all on its own. “Jumping to hyperspace didn’t work, then.”

“Not quite,” Mace allows. “I believe the nebula deflected us before we could make it out.”

“It felt like the hyperdrive cracked halfway through,” Anakin says, agreement more than argument. He looks over Kix, then Fives, then Cody, and sighs, slumping over his raised knees. “Kriff. We lost Grievous.”

“That’s the least of our problems at the moment,” Mace says, and it’s only long practice being diplomatic that keeps his voice from shading towards sharp. Cody, Fives, and Kix don’t need to see one general reprimanding another, though. Not when everything is already so grim. “There’s a road to the north, but I don’t believe we should split our forces.”

Anakin opens his mouth like he’s about to argue, then pauses. Frowns, lifting his head, and his eyes slide out of focus for a moment. “I—do you feel that?” he asks abruptly. “It’s…”

“Twisted,” Mace finishes.

Anakin’s mouth tightens, and he curls his hands into fists, like he’s going to start swinging at empty air. “It _reeks,”_ he says. “I mean—mentally. Not like an actual smell.”

Mace doesn’t roll his eyes, which he privately thinks is an admirable show of self-restraint. “It’s unpleasant,” he agrees, and rises to his feet. “We should move soon. The cycle is ending, but we can reach the road if we go quickly.”

“I’ll rig up a locator beacon,” Anakin says, and follows him up. “If Obi-Wan manages to get through, he needs to be able to find us—”

Outright alarm prickles like claws across Mace’s skin, and he says, “No,” before he can even think about it. Pauses, assessing the instinctive refusal, and then says more carefully, “Obi-Wan isn’t the only one who could find a beacon.”

Anakin meets his gaze, startled, but Mace doesn’t waver, and after a long moment Anakin nods. “I don’t feel anyone near us,” he says, but it’s not a reassurance. 

“No,” Mace allows. “But roads usually lead somewhere.”

“Nowhere good, here,” Anakin says, so certain that it feels like absolute truth. 

Mace doesn’t even try to argue. 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea why AO3 is displaying an off chapter count, but sorry for any confusion! There are really only 12 chapters as of now, the site is just lying to you if it says otherwise.

“We’re counting this as a road now?” Anakin asks, looking up and down it with an unimpressed expression.

Mace contains a flicker of irritation, acknowledges it, and lets it go. It’s accurate enough, after all; the road he felt is more of a footpath, paved with stone and overgrown. The trees loom on either side, and in the gloom between the flickers of the lightning Mace can't see more than a handful of meters. Somewhere ahead of them, the trail bends, but he can't tell whether it disappears or simply blends in with the trees.

There’s almost no visibility here. If something takes advantage of that, they’ll have little warning.

“It’s enough of a road for me, sir,” Fives says, relieved, as he stomps mud off his boots. “The ground here is like aggressive soup.”

Mace glances at him. His plastoid armor is quite a bit less white now, at least from the knees down, and it makes tired humor surface from beneath the tension. “It’s not maintained,” he says, following the trooper, and the stones, even half-covered in moss, are a relief after the sucking mud that’s gotten deeper the further north they’ve gone. “Either we landed in an area that’s no longer occupied, or the planet itself is abandoned.”

“What’s the best-case scenario with a Sith planet?” Kix asks with a grimace. He looks up the road, squinting into the growing darkness, and doesn’t seem happy about what he sees.

“There isn't one,” Mace says, dry, and steps aside to make room for Cody on the narrow path.

“Whatever Sith Lord is working with the Separatists, maybe they came from this planet,” Anakin says. “If we can find any information about them, we might be able to find _them_.”

“Sith planets aren’t the only potential origin points for Sith,” Mace reminds him. “There’s just as much chance he came from a peaceful world like Naboo as from the old Empire.”

Anakin pulls a face, but before he can argue Cody says, “East or west? Do we have an idea of where we’re going?”

“East,” Anakin answers promptly.

“West,” Mace says in the same moment.

There's a pause as they look at each other.

“A feeling?” Mace asks, thoughtful.

Anakin grimaces, pulling a handful of leaves out of his hair. “It’s the first thing that came to mind,” he says with a shrug. “It’s not like it looks better in that direction. I just thought…”

Mace folds his hands into the muddy sleeves of his robe, trying not to let the small irritations of the day distract him. There are too many to count, after all. “The Force guides with instinct, rather than a voice,” he says after a moment. “Explore the feeling. What is it telling you?”

“To go east,” Anakin mutters, but he closes his eyes. Mace waits, watching as he wrestles out the feeling behind the urge, and when he finally lifts his gaze, Mace raises a brow.

“I don’t know,” Anakin says with a shrug. “West seems just as good as east, Master. Maybe it was just a thought. Obi-Wan’s always telling me not to listen to every idea that crosses my mind.”

Mace snorts quietly. “Obi-Wan is correct. If a Jedi is fully devoted to those they serve, with no ulterior motives, the Force will be one voice. Competing desires cloud it.”

This time Anakin's frown is closer to thoughtful than anything. “I think we should go west, then,” he says, and his smirk is tired. “I _really_ want a shower. Maybe that’s throwing me off.”

Amusement flickers, and Mace says, “A common desire, at this point, and one no Jedi would fault you for.” He eyes him for a moment, and then asks, “You're sure?”

Anakin slants him a strange look, but shrugs. “Nothing’s _pulling_ me east. I'm just as happy to go west.”

There _is_ something urging Mace west. Just a faint tug, an itch beneath his skin that feels like following Depa into the jungle of Haruun Kal. It’s quiet, ignorable, but it’s certainly there, and Mace weighs it against Anakin's apparent desire to go the opposite direction. In the end, though, there’s no saying which is the better choice; they have only the information they can directly see, with no hint beyond those competing urges.

“West,” Mace allows, and Anakin nods, apparently unconcerned. Seeing that eases Mace's apprehension slightly, and he says, “We should look for somewhere protected to sleep, as well.”

“Full dark here is going to be _really_ dark,” Kix agrees, and falls in behind Anakin as he passes, boots heavy on the trail. Clone trooper armor isn't made for sneaking, and Mace feels a thread of apprehension, but he crushes it. They haven’t seen anyone they need to sneak past yet, and if they do, they can worry about the troopers’ visibility then. Until that point, he'd rather they stayed armored.

“Something out there?” Cody asks quietly, letting Fives pass before he and Mace follow. The trail is just wide enough for them to walk abreast, which means it’s likely too narrow to have been a speeder path at any point. Mace might feel less unsettled if it had been; paths for an unknown purpose through a dark, swampy jungle seem like they have every chance of hosting dark things at their end.

“I have no doubt,” Mace says, and doesn’t sigh even if it’s tempting.

Cody's crooked smile is just visible in the darkness. “Least we’re not fighting Grievous, too.”

That is something to be grateful for, and Mace lets out an amused breath. “I think this is technically our honeymoon,” he says, and Cody grimaces deeply.

“Truly everything I ever wanted,” he says.

Mace inclines his head in rueful agreement. “Quite the vacation,” he agrees, mild. “The mud baths are exceptional.”

Cody laughs a little, shifting his blaster as they round an edge of trees. The path slopes, leading down into a valley, and between the stones of the path the ground is quickly turning swampier, water pooling in puddles and small rivers beneath the trees. “Room service is a little lacking.”

Mace hums, reaching out on instinct just as Fives steps on a stone that shifts sharply. With a yelp, he almost overbalances, but Mace gets a hand under his elbow before he can hit the ground, pulling him back upright. “Careful,” he says, and lets go.

“Thanks, sir.” Fives casts him a curious look, then asks, “Uh, why is the commander carrying your lightsaber?”

Mace arches a brow at him. “Because he found it in the wreckage, I assume,” he returns.

“Oh,” Cody says, mildly chagrined, and unclips the hilt from his belt. “Sorry, I forgot.”

Mace accepts it back, and he knew where it was, so he wasn’t worried, but having the weight back in his grasp is a relief in a way few things are. “A well-trained habit, after so long with Obi-Wan,” he says dryly, and Cody sighs in aggrieved confirmation.

Fives snickers, but he gives the bright hilt another look. “It doesn’t have a button on it.”

He’s the first clone Mace has met who’s been bold enough to comment directly, and Mace raises a brow, but says without hesitation, “No, it doesn’t. It means anyone who takes it can't use it unless they're another Jedi.” Or a Sith, now, but when he’d built it Sith had been the problem of another age, not a real and immediate threat.

“You turn it on with the _Force_?” Fives asks, and cranes his neck back to get a better look. “But what if you can't use the Force? Isn't that a bad thing?”

Cody is frowning, too, eyeing the hilt with a new level of dismay. “That seems like a flaw in the design,” he agrees.

“If I can't touch the Force, I have more to worry about than my lightsaber,” Mace says dryly, and doesn’t mention the alternative way to turn it on that only he knows. Better for people to look at it and see a smooth casing without any chance of activating the blade themselves.

Cody and Fives trade looks, but Fives just offers skeptically, “If you say so, sir.” Pauses, then asks, “All Jedi make their own lightsabers, right?”

“Fives,” Cody starts, but Mace raises a hand, letting Cody see that he doesn’t mind.

“We do. Sometimes the Forces shows us a vision of the one we’ll create, and we work towards that image for years. Sometimes in the building, the shape reveals itself.”

“Oh.” Fives is frowning, but belatedly he looks up and says, “Thank you, sir.”

Mace inclines his head. “A Jedi's existence is their lightsaber,” he says. “It’s not simply a weapon.”

“That mean General Kenobi keeps throwing his life away recklessly?” Cody mutters, looking pained.

Mace glances at him, remembering some of the more colorful stories Ponds has relayed to him over the course of the war. “Did he really charm a herd of gutkurrs into a ravine?”

“Yeah,” Cody says, looking like the memory alone is going to give him grey hairs. “ _Without_ his lightsaber, so he couldn’t have done anything if it hadn’t worked.”

Mace shakes his head. Obi-Wan is a wise man, but he’s also incredibly dumb sometimes. It makes Mace think of Qui-Gon more often than not, even if Obi-Wan is more subtle about pretending to follow the rules than Qui-Gon ever was. “That whole lineage is overdramatic and reckless,” he says, resigned to it at this point.

Cody frowns a little. “I know General Skywalker and General Kenobi, and I've heard about Kenobi's old master,” he says. “Who else?”

“Dooku,” Mace says dryly, and Fives and Cody both make identical pained sounds. It makes Mace snort. “Quite. Yoda before Dooku, as well. He’s mellowed in his old age.”

Shaking his head, Cody glances forward at Anakin. “No wonder.”

Mace agrees, though he doesn’t say as much. Instead, he says to Fives, “May I ask what your patch means?”

Fives blinks, glancing at the patch on the shoulder of his armor. “It’s for one of Domino Squad,” he says, almost fierce. “Hevy sacrificed him to blow up Rishi Station, so the all-clear beacon would turn off. He liked the rotary cannons, so…” He shrugs, but presses a gloved fingertip to the image of the blaster. “Cutup was there, too, and Droidbait. That’s what the stripes on the leg are for. Five members of Domino Squad, and now there’s just me and Echo left.”

Mace can feel the edges of worn grief to him, the grim determination. A whole squad, and in one attack it was pared away to just two men. “We honor their sacrifice,” he says quietly. “And you honor it as well, by surviving.”

Fives slants him a grin, and it’s on the edge of vicious, not aimed at Mace but at the galaxy at large. “Echo and I are going to make ARC trooper. That’s what we all wanted. I figure a few more fights to prove ourselves and we’ll have it in the bag.”

Thoughtfully, Mace considers him, the weight of him unspooling out into the Force as it spins the future. “Yes,” he says at length. “I don’t believe you’ll have a problem, Fives.”

Fives's glance is almost startled, but his smile curls into something friendlier. “Thanks, General.”

“Don’t let _that_ go to your head either, trooper,” Cody warns, bumping him in the back. “The general’s just being nice.”

“Commander!” Fives protests, ducking around Kix, who rolls his eyes.

“Don’t worry about it,” he tells Fives. “The 212th is full of bullies.”

“I could write you up for that,” Cody threatens, but Mace can easily feel that he doesn’t actually mean it.

“The general could stop you,” Fives retorts, and then pauses. “Right, General?”

Mace raises a brow at Cody. “I'm afraid,” he says gravely, “that disagreeing with Commander Cody isn't good for my peace of mind. As much as I would like to help, my hands are tied. Metaphorically.”

Ahead of them, Anakin makes a wounded noise and says, “ _Master_.”

Cody chuckles, though his eyes are on the forest as they round another curve in the trail. “Still nothing?” he asks.

“No,” Anakin calls back, sounding very glad to change the subject. “I still can't see any lights, either.”

“Animals,” Mace answers more quietly. “Some predatory, but I can't judge size from here.”

“I'm losing my fondness for animals every time we meet a new species that wants to eat us,” Cody mutters.

“They're simply attempting to survive,” Mace says, and clips his lightsaber to his belt. When he looks up again, Cody is watching him.

“Didn’t realize the Jedi went out to protect animal species, too,” he says after a moment.

“Unique life always matters,” Mace says quietly. “There are only ten thousand Jedi to serve the whole of the Republic, though. We can never do enough, but we do what we can.”

At the very least, they’ve finally managed to address the problem of using clone armies in a Republic that’s supposedly banned slavery. Mace had agreed to it, but hated the fact, and–

While this isn't a perfect solution, it’s the best they have, and it will do.

Cody's expression twists for a moment. “The Jedi and the clones feel the same, to me,” he says after. “But we’re made to be replaceable, and you Jedi aren’t. We lose one Jedi and that’s like losing half an army.”

“We take more time to train than clones,” Mace allows, steady, even as something cold like fury curls in his gut. He doesn’t want to dismiss it, but breathes through it anyway. “Our contributions are the same in this war, however. One would not survive without the other.”

Cody casts him a veiled look, but says nothing. Turns his eyes ahead of them again, and asks, “Fives, who’d you train with on Kamino?”

Fives turns, surprised. “Commander Colt and the Rancor Battalion, at the end,” he says. “But mostly Bric and El-Les. General Ti oversaw everything, though.”

Shaak must be back on Kamino by now, Mace thinks, and curls his hands under the cover of his sleeves. Agen may even have reached her already, if he set out from Nar Shaddaa as soon as he got his orders. With any luck, she and Colt will be able to pry some new information out of the Kaminoans.

“Shaak is one of the best at hand-to-hand in the Order,” he says. “I'm sure she was thorough.”

Fives smirks. “She tossed Bric around during a class once, it was _great_. I thought he was going to try and knife her for it.”

Not that it would have helped him. Shaak’s montrals make her acutely aware of even the smallest movements around her, and even with Vaapad’s speed Mace has never been able to take her by surprise. “I imagine that went well,” he says dryly.

“Bric’s a bastard, so we all enjoyed it,” Fives says breezily, then winces. “Sorry, sir.”

Mace shakes his head. “You are welcome to whatever opinion you like of him, Fives. I have no objection.”

“Bric is a bastard,” Cody agrees more quietly. “I heard he sabotaged Domino Squad to make them fail their graduation test.”

The irony is that if he had succeeded, they other three might be alive. Mace doesn’t say as much, just inclines his head. “I believe Shaak has mentioned that she’s had problems with him,” he says, equally soft.

Cody snorts. “I'm not surprised he’d have problems with a Jedi, given his…disposition.”

Jango Fett picked the trainers on Kamino himself, if Mace remembers correctly—Mandalorians, mostly, but also fellow bounty hunters. Still, with the clones no longer a secret project, they may be able to find someone willing to take Bric’s place. Something to suggest to Shaak, perhaps. Mace takes a breath, about to ask whether Cody knows Colt, and then stops short at the first splatter of rain.

“Oh, _kark it_ ,” Anakin says, half an instant before the heavens open like someone just dumped a vast, bottomless bucket over their heads.

With a sigh, Mace pulls the hood of his cloak up, though the fabric is hardly waterproof enough to do much for long. Especially with this level of rainfall. “Cover would be an excellent idea,” he says dryly.

As if to agree, a long, deafening rumble of thunder sounds right above them.

“Yeah, probably,” Cody says, resigned, and pulls his helmet off his belt, sliding it back on. Fives and Kix do the same, and Anakin, whose cloak has apparently gone the same way as Obi-Wan’s, futilely raises a hand to keep the rain off his face, looking _deeply_ put out.

“Under the trees?” he asks, eyeing the sparse cover with new appreciation.

“There’s too much water here,” Mace says, and nods at the small streams that are already swelling. “We should get out of the valley in case it floods.”

“I’d even pick a _desert_ planet over a swamp planet,” Anakin says grimly, but he trudges forward, squinting against the rain. “Master Windu, do you see that?”

Mace follows the jab of his finger, waiting for another flicker of lightning to illuminate the forest ahead of them. For a long moment, he can't make out anything, but a second and third flash hard on the heels of the first cast strange shadows where there shouldn’t be, odd shapes against the organic line of the trees. Something low, just the slope of a roof protruding over the edge of the canopy, but it’s very definitely not a natural form.

Of course, there’s no saying that it’s something friendly. Mace nods grimly, and says, “I do.”

Anakin glances back at him, then steps aside as Mace makes his way to join him at the front, and it eases Mace's darkest thoughts to see that Anakin already has a hand on his lightsaber. “We should at least check it out,” he says.

Mace inclines his head. “It seems like the best course of action,” he agrees, and heads up the hill, careful to keep to the stones of the path. There’s water starting to flow between them, black in the dimness and probably more mud than rain. Glancing back over his shoulder, Mace checks that Cody, Kix, and Fives are steady on the stone, then picks up his pace, not wanting to get caught in a mudslide or the sudden formation of a new river.

The downpour doesn’t lighten any as they climb the far side of the valley, but the last of the light drains away when they're about halfway up. The darkness is so complete that the lightning hardly manages to lift it for more than a fraction of a second, and the shadows under the massive trees turn depthless and devouring. Further into the jungle, eerie, pale blue light kindles in scattered spots, glowing fungus squatting between the roots, but it’s not enough to see the path by and Mace doesn’t want to risk approaching it to break a piece off.

“Charming,” Cody mutters from behind him, and a moment later the lights on his helmet come on, pooling in the murky gloom without spreading. A long, continuous growl of thunder overhead emphasizes his point, and Kix makes a sound of agreement.

“At least it’s warm,” he says. “General Windu, General Skywalker, do you want the emergency blankets? They might help keep you dry.”

“We’ll need them more later,” Anakin says, waving a hand. “Thanks, Kix. We’ll survive.”

A particularly bright flash of lightning cuts across the sky, and Mace catches a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye. Turns his head, scanning the trees, but can't spot anything. Unease settles, coiling around his chest, and he glances forward, judging the distance to the structure.

“Sir?” Fives asks, tense.

A little surprised, Mace glances back at him. Through the helmet he can't make out Fives's expression, but he isn't watching Mace; instead, his head is turned to watch the trees, right where Mace thought he saw movement.

“I don’t think we’re quite alone out here,” he says. “Perhaps an animal has taken interest in us.”

Kix tightens his grip on his blaster, turning to scan the other side of the trail. “Sir?”

“Movement, maybe,” Anakin says, glancing at Mace and then away, towards a particularly oddly-shaped patch of shadows. “But I can't hear anything over the thunder.”

Mace inclines his head in agreement, a stream of water pouring off his hood. “I sense no minds around us,” he says, but doesn’t mean it as a reassurance.

Somewhere in the jungle, a low, wavering cry rises, the first animal noise Mace has heard. It’s not a promising one. 

“Kriff,” Anakin mutters, and jerks his head towards the structure. “Come on, even if it’s bad cover, it’s still cover.”

A ripple of lightning washes across the clouds, lighting them from one end of the horizon to the other for a brief minute. it’s enough to augment the helmet lights, though, and in the momentary relief from the dark Anakin practically trips over a narrow, paved path that turns into the jungle for a short ways and then rises sharply. He makes for it immediately, ducking under the overhanging branches, and says, “This goes right up to the base of that thing. It looks like some kind of solid building, at least.”

Somehow, that doesn’t make Mace feel any less apprehensive, but the only other option is bedding down in the forest, and right now that seems worse. Grimly, he follows Anakin up the short path, one hand on his lightsaber.

“Holding steady?” Cody murmurs from right behind him.

Mace doesn’t answer for a moment, attention caught by a bulky shape on the ground beyond their pool of light. Silently, he tips his head towards it, and Cody turns, lights catching the edge of moss-covered stone. For a moment, it’s almost impossible to make out a shape, but—

“Is that a _face_?” Fives demands, recoiling.

Another flicker of lightning breaks through the canopy, sparking disfiguring light across the shattered, overgrown stone features, and Mace breathes in. Breathes out, and nods. “A statue,” he says, and tries to fit the pieces together into a full image as the light vanishes. A hooded figure, head bowed, hands broken off but at one point probably clasped around something. It’s impossible to tell what it was meant to represent, but even so, that chill is winding tighter around Mace's spine.

“Looks almost like the statues at the main entrance of the Coruscant Temple,” Cody offers after a moment. Despite the even words, his blaster is slightly more raised than it was a moment ago, and his shoulders are tenser.

“What are the odds that it’s a Jedi temple you don’t know about, General?” Kix asks, though he sounds resigned.

“Greater than you might think,” Mace allows. “The Jedi have existed for long enough that many temples have been abandoned and forgotten.” He pauses, considering the vague shape of the statue, and then says, “Even if it resembles the Four Masters, it isn't anything close.”

“How do you know?” Kix asks, a frown in his voice.

“It’s way creepier, for one,” Fives mutters. “Can we keep moving?”

“Away from the statue and towards whatever it once guarded,” Mace observes, mild, and Fives's groan is loud over the speakers. Mace snorts, and beside him Cody makes a sound of amusement.

“Anything, General?” he calls up the curve of the steep path, voice pitched so it won't carry far.

“I think it’s a temple,” Anakin calls back, and Mace grimaces. He climbs the rest of the way up the incline even so, offering Kix, with the heaviest pack, a hand up the last sheer section. Kix takes it gratefully, letting Mace pull him up, and Mace steps past him to reach Anakin just as another sky-splitting wash of lightning rolls over them.

It _is_ a temple, with a shape Mace has seen in very old holos and artistic reconstructions. Square on the bottom, supported by worn stone pillars, but a tall, narrow pyramid with rounded edges above, rising to match the tops of the trees. The roof is cut down the center, leaving two distinctive horns, and the whole structure juts out at an angle, looming over them. On one side of the triangular doorway, an empty pedestal is covered in plants, and on the other side the broken-off feet of a matching statue still stand, rounded with age. Lightning reflects off the edges of broken glass, one-time windows gaping emptily.

“Someone forgot that temples are supposed to be _welcoming_ , apparently,” Anakin mutters, and eyes the rusted, moss-covered metal of the door. “Master, what _is_ this place?”

“A Sith temple,” Mace says evenly, and Anakin jerks, stepping back sharply. He flashes Mace an alarmed look, and Mace grimaces in agreement, but steps closer. “Long abandoned, by the looks of it.”

“Aren’t Sith temples usually full of _booby traps_?” Anakin demands, but he still edges under the overhang, apparently willing to take the break in the rain even if it’s courtesy of the Sith ruin.

“Very,” Mace confirms, but he presses a hand to the door, trying to feel for the mechanism. He can break it, but that will almost definitely set off at least one trap.

“You want to go _in_ there?” Fives asks skeptically. “Did I miss something about the Sith? Evil, angry, tried to take over the galaxy a bunch of times, enslaved who planets, fond of torture? _Those_ Sith?”

Underneath a thick covering of slime, a red light kindles. A gem set into the door starts to glow, and when Mace applies just a touch of the Force, it brightens. A groaning, rumbling squeal of metal sounds, and the doors jerkily inch apart, then stall.

It’s still enough of a gap to slip though, so Mace leaves them as they are. “Those Sith are the only ones I'm aware of,” he says, and his voice is the only dry thing about him at the moment. “It’s here or out in the jungle right now, and at least this place is defensible.”

Cody nods curtly. “I’ll take it,” he says, but when he goes to step in Mace holds out a hand to stop him.

“I'm slightly faster than a clone, no matter how skilled,” he says quietly. “Allow me.”

“You're also our best hope of surviving this mudball,” Cody counters, stubborn. “If a laser takes your head off—”

“Then,” Mace says, dry, “I certainly don’t deserve to be Master of the Order.” Before Cody or Anakin can protest, he steps forward, through the gap, and casts a careful look around the interior of the temple.

Dull red light emanates from a pool on the floor, molten stone casting a sharp, dry heat across the room. It’s enough to see up the walls to a ceiling covered in dangling roots and vines, over cracked stone and determined greenery that’s taken root, and Mace can't sense anything immediately hostile. He takes a few steps further, sweeping a glance over a crumbling altar and then at the passage beyond it, half-blocked by fallen blocks of stone. Water has pooled there, but otherwise the interior seems dry, uninhabited. There's nothing swinging for his head, either, so he says, “I believe we’re safe.”

Immediately, Cody ducks in, Anakin right behind him. Anakin casts a look around and wrinkles his nose. “Creepy,” he decides.

“That’s what I was saying, sir,” Fives says, slipping in after him with Kix right behind him. Pauses there, and then asks, “Is that… _lava_?”

“The Sith,” Mace says dryly, “aren’t known for their subtlety in decorating.”

“There’s a lack of subtlety and then there’s a pretend _volcano_ in the middle of your sitting room,” is Fives's opinion.

Outside, a deafening crash of thunder practically makes the old temple shake, and Anakin huffs. “At least it’s dry,” he says, and crosses to the pool, peering into it. “How is this safe?”

Cody snorts. “I assume the Sith weren’t overly concerned about that,” he says, and jerks his head at the collapsed corridor. “We want to scout that?”

“I doubt we can get through,” Mace says. “And I don’t like the idea of exploring it in the dark.”

“We can check it out in the morning,” Anakin agrees, and frowns at the shrine. “That thing feels _evil_.”

Mace doesn’t bother pointing out that it _is_ evil. “The Dark side draws on suffering, and pain, and fear,” he says. “It leaves a mark on whatever it touches. That’s likely what you're feeling.”

“Maul wasn’t like this,” Anakin says quietly. “Dooku isn't, either.”

“No,” Mace agrees, grim. “The difference between a Sith who believes there may only ever be two, and a whole empire of them using their power across entire systems.”

There's a fraught silence, broken only by the growl of the thunder, and then Cody sighs and pulls his helmet off. Beneath it, his expression is tired, and his hair is just long enough to look mussed. “Guess this proves we didn’t make it out of the nebula,” he says unhappily. “I was hoping we were just being paranoid.”

Mace doesn’t say that if they really are on a Sith planet, this is going to be one of the safer, more peaceful moments. Judging by the look on Cody's face, he doesn’t have to.

And then, in the vines above them, something _growls_.

“Fracking pifgah _poodoo,”_ Fives says decisively, and Mace can't help but agree wholeheartedly.


	13. Chapter 13

Cody has his blaster up and aimed in a heartbeat, but even that is too slow.

From a high ledge, through a curtain of straggling roots, a dark shape launches itself towards Anakin in a surge of muscle and intent. Cody's first shot misses, and by the time he can aim again it’s on the ground, a massive creature taller than Mace at the shoulder, with a whip-like tail, a surge of fury and hunger as it lunges. Anakin leaps it, lightsaber flashing into his hand and igniting, but the thing is faster even than him; it spins before he can so much as land, teeth flashing—

The blade of a purple lightsaber skims its hindquarters, carving a long gash into mottled skin, and the beast _howls_. It rounds on Mace, too fast to track with the eye, and the lash of its tail shatters the old altar. Kix shouts a warning, and a blaster fires but not at the beast swiping at Mace.

At another one, just dropping from the same ledge, and Cody dives out of the way of its landing.

If it sees him at all, though, there isn't so much as a hint. It leaps right over him, aiming for Anakin as he drives the one harrying Mace back, then _past_ him—

At Fives, and Cody rolls up to one knee and takes a shot without hesitation.

With a canine shriek, the beast skids sideways, hindquarters giving out, and Fives takes his own shot, ducks away. He flings himself behind Cody, then calls, “Another!”

“Two more,” Kix corrects. “Commander, the tunnel!”

Eyes in the darkness are all Cody needs to aim, and he pulls the trigger. Fluid, ferocious, the creature bends around the bolt, leaps the last fall of stone, and catches the edge of Mace's cloak as he twists away just in time. Anakin curses loudly, parrying the other as it tries to grab him, and snarls, “What the kriff are these?”

The fourth lands practically on top of Mace, and he goes down, unable to answer. Cody sees flashing teeth, hears the snarling, aims—

The beast howls, half an instant before it’s thrown clear, right into a wall with enough force to crack the stone. Mace rolls to his feet, grim-faced, and raises a hand. Stone rumbles, and with a burst of dust and chips of stone, the corridor collapses all the way, completely blocked off. Turning, Mace meets the snapping jaws of the one Cody and Fives wounded, and it slides around his lightsaber, sweeps its tail at him as he leaps up and over it.

“Fives!” Anakin shouts, and Cody wrenches around as the beast harrying Anakin apparently decides it wants easier prey. It bounds right for them, and Fives curses, falling back. One of Kix's shots just misses as the thing leaps up, rebounds off the wall, and drops. It’s right above them, and Cody tackles Fives out of the way, rolls to his feet, and fires.

The creature darts out of the way, too fast, too clever, and the lash of its tail hits Fives across the chest. It cracks plastoid like it’s nothing, throws Fives back with a cry, and he slams into the wall and slumps to the base of it, perfectly still.

“Fives!” Anakin leaps to meet the beast before it can close in on Fives, and the blue flash of the lightsaber’s blade carves a line down its side, makes it spin. It grabs for him as he twists out of the way, teeth skimming his sleeve, and Cody drops to one knee, takes two shots at it that connect, and then turns, just as Kix fires again.

A purple blade takes off the wounded one’s head, just as Anakin's collapses, and outside thunder practically shakes the temple.

Cody doesn’t move for a long moment, braced for another of the creatures to appear, but nothing happens. He scans the roof, finding nothing, checks the four bodies that are scattered unmoving across the temple, and then rises to his feet. Kix passes him at a run, headed for Fives, and a moment later Mace does as well, nodding quickly to Cody.

“Nice shot,” he says quietly, and then crouches down to help Kix pull Fives away from the wall.

Cody lets out a tense breath, almost amused, and asks Anakin, “You all right, General?”

Anakin pulls his torn sleeve back, showing a long scratch down his wrist. “That’s the worst of it,” he says, but his gaze flickers back to Fives as Kix pulls his shattered chest armor off, and the line of his mouth is grim. “Karking hell, those things were fast.”

“Vornskrs,” Mace says without looking up. To Kix, he says, “Their tails are venomous, to stun prey.”

Kix makes a sound of relief, pulling out his scanner. “Just knocked out, then,” he says, and his expression tightens faintly as the long gash down Fives's chest comes clear. “We haven’t even been here for a full cycle yet. I'm going to run out of bacta at this rate.”

“ _Those_ ,” Anakin says, “were _not_ vornskrs. They're twice the size, for one thing.”

“Not regular ones, no.” Mace glances up, raising a brow at him. “We are on a Sith planet, Anakin. They're chrysalides.”

Anakin's expression twists, horrified and disgusted in equal measure, but Cody isn't familiar with the term. “They're what?” he asks, frowning.

“Chrysalides,” Mace repeats. “Creatures heavily altered with Sith alchemy to be more dangerous and more intelligent.” He sits back with a grimace, wiping a trace of blood off his face, and says, “Vornskrs hunt Force sensitives. The Sith here likely used them as guards or hunters, and when the planet was abandoned, they adapted.”

Force sensitives. No wonder they immediately went after the Jedi, before realizing the troopers were probably easier targets. Cody blows out a breath, then asks, “Can you sense them?”

“Kind of,” Anakin says, eyeing one of the corpses. “I think that was all of them, though. They must have followed us through the trees.”

They were certainly fast enough to have vanished before Mace or Anakin could spot them, Cody thinks grimly, and eyes the sliver of trees he can see through the stalled door. The rain’s only gotten heavier, the forest darker, and being somewhere protected seems better than risking the jungle when there’s something out there that likes to hunt Jedi, but—

A Sith planet. Cody's thinking he’s going to bump that up to the very top of his _Least Favorite Places In the Galaxy_ list, and they haven’t even been here long. An impressive feat.

Rising to his feet, Mace eyes Anakin for a moment, then offers, “You’re all right?”

“Yeah.” Anakin grimaces, clipping his lightsaber back to his belt. “Thanks for the help.”

“We both looked equally tasty, I believe,” Mace says dryly, and lifts a hand. Two of the corpses lift off the ground, floating towards the door, and Anakin pulls a face but does the same with the remaining ones.

“At least they weren’t rancors,” Anakin says, determinedly light. “I used to have nightmares about chrysalid rancors after I learned about them.”

“Katarns, for me,” Mace agrees with a grimace, and as soon as the last of the bodies have dropped outside, he gestures. The doors slide the rest of the way closed, the red glow of the glass in the door fading, and he drops his hand. “My master told me about them on a forest planet, and I twitched every time there was a noise above us until we left.”

Anakin makes an aggrieved sound of sympathy. “Obi-Wan left stuffed rancor toys on my bed for a _month_ afterwards. He said he was desensitizing me with cute versions. I wanted to toss them in a shredder.”

Cody hides a grin, turning away, and checks that Kix isn't looking too frazzled. “How long does the poison take to wear off?” he asks.

“Not too long, I think,” Kix says, tipping his helmet at the scanner. “It’s working its way out of his system already, and the cut’s not too deep. He’ll probably have even more of a headache than before, but he’ll be all right.”

“Been a rough mission for the new recruit,” Cody says wryly, and slings his blaster over his shoulder. Glances around, then up, and asks Mace, “Is there any way to block the opening up there?”

Mace considers for a moment, then takes one quick step and leaps. It should be an impossible distance, but he gets a foot on the wall and a hand on the ledge, and then pulls himself up like it’s a light little hop. Cody opens his mouth to protest, because going up there _alone_ is _not_ what he meant for Mace to do, but before he can say anything Mace vanishes over the edge.

Heart in his throat, Cody waits for a cry, for a howl, for some sound of a struggle—

A rumbling sounds, pitched slightly lower than the thunder outside, and the heavy beat of the rain becomes lighter. Moments later, Mace reappears, dropping back down to land by the broken altar.

“A section of the stones for the roof are cracked,” he says. “I blocked the gap. It should be safe now.”

Not entirely reassured, Cody gives the collapsed tunnel another look, but he can't feel so much as a breeze through it. Reluctantly, he nods, then says, “Better than the jungle.”

“Yes,” Mace says dryly. “I too prefer a roof over drowning.”

Cody rolls his eyes at him, though he has to strangle a crooked smile. “If there are more vornskrs, will you be able to feel them coming?” Which is a reminder that at some point he should sit down with either Mace or Obi-Wan and ask how things like that even _work_ , because at this point he’s operating on trooper stories and what he’s managed to see with his own eyes, and it’s unreliable at best as far as a full accounting of Jedi powers go.

Anakin looks at Mace, who looks back, and there’s a pause that Cody doesn’t like. “Potentially,” Mace finally allows. “If they're enough like regular vornskrs, we will.”

Left unsaid is that they might not, if the changes are extreme enough. Cody squashes the urge to curse and nods shortly, resigned to the danger. “Then we’ll need a watch. I’ll—”

“I need to stay up with Fives anyway,” Kix interrupts. “At least until he wakes up. I can take first watch, Commander.”

Cody closes his mouth, too smart to argue with a medic. Rex would, but thankfully, Cody's not Rex. He also doesn’t have half of medical out for his head at any given time, which is probably related.

“I’ll take the second watch,” Anakin offers, and when Mace raises a brow at him, he shrugs. “I want to see if I can contact Obi-Wan or Ahsoka, and I can do that at the same time.”

“Be careful reaching too far,” Mace says after a moment. “I don’t know how far we are from Korriban, but—likely not far enough.”

“Korriban?” Kix asks curiously. “Another Sith planet?”

“The Sith homeworld,” Mace confirms, “both for the Sith as a species and the Dark Lords that took over their empire in its waning years.” He pauses and then tells Anakin, “The Dark Side will be strong here, and will hide itself behind lies. Keep on your guard.”

“Yes, Master,” Anakin says grimly.

Mace nods, apparently satisfied with that. “If you need to, wake me. Two minds together can see through illusions more easily than one.”

Cody doesn’t care for the idea that there's some sort of invisible energy out there, waiting to entrap the Jedi, but—he supposes this is their business even more than battle would be. If they're not able to face it, it will probably eat them all in short order.

Forcing down the thread of unease, he asks Kix, “Got those emergency blankets?”

Kix tugs off his helmet, then digs them out of his pack. “Only three,” he says. “I need one for Fives, but…” He hesitates, looking from Cody to Mace to Anakin, and doesn’t seem to know what to say.

Amused, Cody glances at Mace to find him looking back, a flicker of humor on his face. Apparently even ending up stranded on a Sith planet hasn’t made their new status irrelevant. “That’s fine, Kix,” he says, and takes one of the blankets. “Mace and I will share.”

Kix gives him a look that’s very close to alarmed. “ _Commander_?”

Anakin makes a pained noise and very pointedly turns away.

“It’s perfectly acceptable,” Mace says dryly, but his gaze is on Anakin, deeply amused. “We’re married.”

Kix looks like he has absolutely no idea what to do with that. His eyes flicker from Cody to Mace, like he’s waiting for one of them to declare it a joke, but Cody gives him his best “CO is yelling at me and I have no emotions” face in response. Mace, of course, looks like he could be meditating in the temple or in the middle of a battlefield, for all the change his expression shows.

It’s mildly satisfying to see Kix so completely, utterly lost.

The curve of Mace's mouth is ever so subtly amused as he passes, pulling his cloak and outer robe off. He spreads them out on the floor next to the pit of molten rock, and Cody hesitates, then starts stripping off his armor. His blacks underneath are only damp, but better to start tomorrow with everything dry than go into it soggy.

“If I didn’t know better I’d think you proposed to me just to torture General Skywalker,” he says quietly, and Mace snorts.

“It’s a benefit I hadn’t considered at the time, but I hardly object to it,” he returns, and Cody laughs. He considers where they can sleep, eyeing a patch of spreading moss, and tips his head at it in question. Mace studies it for a moment, then inclines his head in agreement and lies down, setting his lightsaber on the stone above his head.

It’s a little odd to settle down next to him, close enough to feel the heat of his body. Cody has one awkward second when he doesn’t know what to do with his limbs, but a hand curls around his elbow, tugs him back, and Cody gratefully lets himself be guided down, tossing the blanket over them as he goes. Mace settles behind him, chest to Cody's back, and it’s—

It’s fine. It’s _warm_. Cody breathes through the strangeness of it, not the careful distance of the shared bed in Mace's quarters but close contact, and closes his eyes. He feels far too aware of Mace's breaths, his heartbeat, but he doesn’t want to move away.

The moss isn't a lot of cushioning, not against deep bruises from the crash, but Cody's fallen asleep in worse places. He breathes in, breathes out, and wills himself to sleep, the sound of the thunder and the rain distant enough to be ignored.

They only have a few hours before they have to keep moving, and Cody's a soldier, knows to take advantage of whatever chances for rest present themselves. He sleeps, and he doesn’t dream.

“Master Windu,” Anakin says, urgent, and Mace has his eyes open and is rolling upright before he’s even fully conscious. His lightsaber comes to his hand with a thought, the motion instinctive, and he rises—

Stops short, right before he trips over Cody.

There's no attack, or at least nothing physical. Anakin is close, looking mildly startled but unharmed, and Mace takes a breath, then carefully steps over Cody's sleeping form, leans down to straighten the blanket before it falls off of him, and asks quietly, “Yes, Anakin?”

Anakin's gaze flickers from Mace to Cody, but he drags his eyes back with a will, expression sliding into something grim. “I saw something,” he says. “In the trees.”

None of the troopers are awake. Mace casts a look over them, then inclines his head. Not an immediate threat, then. A Jedi sort of threat, and that could be far worse in the long run. Gesturing towards the front of the temple, where the door stands open, Mace raises a brow, gets a nod in return, and follows Anakin out through the gap, picking up his dry robes as he goes. It’s far enough away to hopefully let Cody, Kix, and Fives sleep, but not so far that they’ll miss a danger if there is one.

“In the trees?” he echoes, pulling on his dry robes, and casts a glance at the dripping forest that surrounds them. “Here, or in a vision?”

Anakin pauses, frowning, and then looks up at Mace with frustration on his face. “That’s the thing,” he says, almost angry. “I can't tell. It felt real, but—”

Mace frowns. _But_ could imply many things. “What did you see?” he asks.

“Qui-Gon Jinn,” Anakin says, and meets Mace's gaze. “I saw Qui-Gon walking in the jungle, and he told me he was trapped here.”

Slow, cold, the words slip through Mace's nerves, and he carefully breathes through them. Closes his eyes, trying not to show his reaction, and then asks quietly, “You're sure it was him?”

Anakin scowls. “ _You're_ the one who told me to believe in my visions—”

Mace raises a hand to cut him off. “Anakin. I believe you. But the Force here is strange. Are you _certain_ it was Qui-Gon you saw?”

“It has to be,” Anakin says, agitated, and turns away, shoving his hands into his hair. “It _felt_ like him, Master. He was—he said he’d been pulled here, and his spirit was trapped in the ruins, and he needed my help to get free.”

It doesn’t feel right. Nothing about it feels like it’s right. Unease sits like a nauseous weight in Mace's stomach, and at least half of that is the thought of Qui-Gon’s soul caught and held, pinned in place on a planet full of Sith ruins, but—

“It sounds like a trap,” he says, careful to keep his words perfectly even.

Anakin laughs, ragged. “Why do you think I woke you up, Master?” he demands. “I—Master Obi-Wan said you were friends with Qui-Gon, so I thought—”

 _Sentiment_ , Mace thinks, directed entirely at himself. He keeps his spine straight with a will, eyes fixed on the trees, and tries to sort through what it is he’s feeling. Horror, first and foremost. Anger, if it is a trap and someone simply sent Anakin an image of Qui-Gon. Hope, in case it’s true.

It’s been a very long time since Qui-Gon died, Mace reflects, but it still aches.

“If it’s not a trap,” he says carefully, “it likely means there are still active Sith practitioners on this planet, to have captured a Jedi spirit. And if it is a trap, we have far more to worry about than that.”

“We can't—if it _is_ real, we can't _leave_ him here,” Anakin says, a challenge. “They have to be using him for something, and he’s asking us for help.”

Mace closes his eyes for a long moment, then opens them. “Show me where he was,” he says.

“I was meditating out here,” Anakin says. “The rain helped, and—”

“Sirs?” a groggy voice asks, and Mace turns to see Fives on his feet, watching them with confusion. His hair, just slightly over regulation length, sticks up in strange clumps, and Mace feels a flicker of something…soft, that rises in his chest.

Fives isn't Depa, stumbling out of her room after her first solo mission went badly, but for a moment he almost could be. 

“Fives,” he says. “How are you feeling?”

Fives blinks, then screws up his face and rubs a hand over his eyes. “Like that time Hevy snuck a bottle of whiskey into the barracks,” he says, and then freezes like he didn’t mean to reveal that.

Mace snorts softly. “A hangover from vornskr venom is likely comparable,” he allows. “Be careful. Even small traces of it can affect your balance.”

“Yeah, I can feel that,” Fives mutters unhappily. “I mean, uh. Thank you, sir.”

His black undersuit is torn, dragged down so Kix could work on his chest. Mace shrugs out of his outermost robe and hands it over, and Fives takes it gratefully, pulling it on. The pre-dawn wind is surprisingly cool, and there’s far less humidity right now to ease it.

“Master,” Anakin prompts quietly, and Mace inclines his head, following him down the steps of the temple.

Somehow, it’s no surprise at all when footsteps follow them.

A little bemused, Mace slows enough that Fives can catch up without having to strain himself, but doesn’t otherwise comment. “You saw him from the front of the temple?” he asks Anakin, who comes to a stop a short distance in, between two particularly large trees. There’s faintly glowing fungus under the protruding roots, casting an eerie bluish light over everything, and the flickers of scattered lightning still sparking in the sky don’t help.

“Right here,” Anakin says, and nods at a section of ground. “He didn’t leave any footprints.”

A spirit likely wouldn’t. Mace closes his eyes, trying to feel the way the Force bends here, and—

There's a strange feeling to it. A touch of brightness where there shouldn’t be, trapped in the unsettling twists like an animal caught in a snake’s coils. It’s possible it feels like Qui-Gon’s presence, but Mace can't tell through the unfamiliar shape of the Force all around them.

“You certainly saw something,” he says quietly. “However, I can't tell whether it was Qui-Gon.”

Anakin looks grim. His hands close into fists, and he says abruptly, “I can't remember what he felt like. It was so long ago, and I didn’t have any idea that what I was feeling was the Force then. So I can't tell.”

It sounds like he’s blaming himself for that. Mace is all too familiar with the feeling.

“I hardly remember, either,” Mace says after a moment. “We were friends for decades. Time dulls everything, Anakin.”

“Qui-Gon?” Fives asks, careful. “There was someone here? Someone you know?”

“Maybe,” Mace allows. “A Jedi Master who died on Naboo, a decade ago now. It was a sending of him, or perhaps his spirit.”

“Jedi can see _ghosts_?” Fives sounds like he doesn’t know whether to be delighted by that or freaked out.

“Under certain circumstances,” Mace says, amused. “This one told Anakin he was in need of rescue, though.”

Fives looks from Anakin to Mace, frowning. “That sounds a lot like a trap,” he offers.

“Yeah,” Anakin says darkly. “But I'm not going to let Qui-Gon rot on a Sith planet if it isn't.”

“We have no direction to go in, and no idea who trapped him,” Mace reminds him quietly. “If Qui-Gon’s spirit is here, there are other things that suddenly concern us as well.”

“It _is_ him,” Anakin says mulishly. “I can feel it.”

Mace doesn’t bother pointing out that Anakin's certainty is what landed them all on this planet to begin with. “The Dark Side works through lies and illusions,” he says. “It has fooled the strongest, wisest Jedi in the Order. Despite your talents, you are just as susceptible as the rest of us to it, Anakin.”

The stubborn slant of Anakin's mouth wavers for a moment. “It _felt_ like him,” he says again.

“You don’t remember what he felt like,” Mace says, flat. “You just admitted as much. If our memories can be tapped, there’s no way to be certain whether it was real or not.” He pauses, weighing his next words, and then says, “Qui-Gon Jinn was a man who would have given his life in a moment to keep you safe. I find it hard to imagine that he would ask you to walk into danger for him, Anakin.”

Anakin opens his mouth, pauses. “Maybe he knows I can handle it,” he says bullishly.

“How?” Mace asks practically, and there's something that feels hollowed-out in his chest, thinking of Qui-Gon’s soul kept from peace, but—sentiment. It’s sentiment, and very close to a blinding attachment that Mace refuses to surrender to. “If his soul has been trapped here, how does he know?”

“You're just angry that he came to me instead of you!” Anakin snaps, bristling.

Mace watches him, long, steady. Lets the words settle in the drip of wet leaves around them, in the growl of the thunder overhead, until Anakin pulls back slightly. It’s easy to see the chagrin that crosses his face as he registers the outburst, and he swallows.

“Qui-Gon,” Mace says finally, quietly, “was a dear friend. I would have welcomed the sight of him, yes. But I know how much he meant to you, Anakin, and I would not begrudge you another meeting with him.”

“Yes, Master,” Anakin says, ducking his head. His expression is caught somewhere between anger and regret, and he turns away, stalking back towards the temple like he doesn’t know how to react.

This, Mace thinks wearily, is one thing he doesn’t envy Obi-Wan for in the slightest. He’d had his doubts about Obi-Wan taking on Anakin so young, but—truly, very few other masters could have managed half as well, given Anakin's temperament.

“Uh,” Fives says awkwardly, into the hush. “It’s. It’s pretty obviously a trap.”

“Yes,” Mace agrees. “On the surface, it might ring true, but contemplation makes it fall apart.” Which means it was the perfect trap for Anakin in particular, who has a tendency to rush right into things. Mace doesn’t like that at all. It means there’s someone orchestrating things, a mind behind them. Either the Sith Lord is reaching further than normal, or there’s another Dark Side user involved.

Then, suddenly, something registers, and he glances at Fives again, standing there looking out of place. Thinks of the vornskrs, the way they turned their attention to Fives even with two Jedi in the room, and—pauses. Weighs his own reaction to the trooper, with a slow curl of suspicion settling along his spine.

“You feel it as well?” he asks, and deliberately looks out into the trees. “Something here is very dark, and I do not trust it, even if it comes wearing a familiar face.”

Fives hesitates, frowning, and looks from Mace to the jungle beyond. “It’s creepy, if that’s what you mean,” he offers after a moment. “Feels like there's always something watching us, you know?”

Maybe just a soldier’s instinct, but—

Maybe not, Mace thinks, and inclines his head.

“It does,” he agrees, and leads the way back to the temple as rain starts to fall again, light and misty over the treetops.


	14. Chapter 14

“Master Ti, you’ve returned,” El-Les says, offering Shaak a smile. “That was a very quick trip to Coruscant.”

Shaak returns the smile, folding her hands into her sleeves as she comes to a stop. “The Council met promptly, thankfully. It was not a trip for pleasure.”

El-Les shakes his head, but he falls into step with her as she leaves the landing platform. “You Jedi rarely do anything for pleasure, I've noticed. Perhaps you would benefit from it.”

At Shaak's shoulder, Colt stiffens faintly, but Shaak doesn’t glance back. She knows El-Les, and it wasn’t meant to be an inappropriate comment. “A Jedi chooses to serve others, not themselves, El-Les. I am quite happy as I am.”

“Ah, I meant no disrespect, Master Ti,” El-Les says, lifting his hands. “It is good to see you back, but I worry for you Jedi sometimes.”

For a mercenary and bounty hunter, El-Les has always struck Shaak as a kind soul. She chuckles, raising a hand to hide it, and returns, “I appreciate your concern, but truly, my duty occupies me well enough. How is the new batch of cadets?”

The Acrona’s expression slants into something wry. “They are advancing,” he says. “Slowly, I'm afraid. Bric is not pleased, but I believe they have potential.” He glances sideways at her, then over at Colt, and says, “One of the squads is in medical for a check as we speak, if you would like to meet them.”

Shaak considers that for a moment. The flight was long, and Agen is likely close behind her, traveling from Nar Shaddaa as he is. She should be at hand to greet him when he arrives, because Agen is a brusque man and the Kaminoans care quite a lot about niceties, but—

She thinks of what Mace said, in the hangar. Thinks of his moment of clarity, despite the clouding of the Force, and Colt’s words about modifications made to the clones. Modifications the Kaminoans won't reveal, despite her asking.

In the darkness, without a clear direction to walk, any step is a step forward.

“Shall we?” she asks Colt with a smile, and he raises a brow at her but nods.

“If you’d like, General,” he says. “I'm always up to pick on some shinies.”

“Commander,” she chides, amused, and the curl of Colt’s lips says he knows she doesn’t mean it.

El-Les chuckles softly. “I believe this squad in particular could use some…polishing,” he says tactfully. “They’re not quite Domino Squad, but there are some unique personalities to accommodate.”

“Oh my,” Shaak says, hiding a laugh. “It will be an interesting few weeks, then.”

“Quite,” El-Les agrees, shaking his head. He leads the way to the lift, murmuring their destination as it starts to move, and looks out over Kamino’s stormy seas for a long moment. Shaak can feel that he wants to say something, but she doesn’t push, just folds her hands in front of herself and waits patiently.

After a second, El-Les casts her a look, and Acrona features are hard to read, but Shaak can feel his flicker of tolerant bemusement. “You Jedi would make decent interrogators,” he says, and looks away again. “Have you heard news of Domino Squad?”

Shaak has, because she went looking. She sees deployments, but—briefly, for thousands of clones each time they ship out. Domino was something special, though. Something different. She’d thought to keep an eye on them as they worked up through the ranks, made ARC troopers, went on, but—

This is a war, and no war has ever been kind. Particularly not to hopes for the future.

“Yes,” she says quietly, and feels Colt shift ever so slightly closer, his shoulder brushing hers. “They were stationed at the Rishi moon base, guarding the approach to Kamino. The base was attacked, and Cutup and Droidbait were killed. Hevy—” Her throat closes, and it takes her a moment to feel out the edges of her grief, to acknowledge it, to let it bleed back into the Force. “Hevy sacrificed himself to take out the base, so the fleet would realize there was an attack.”

Colt leans into her, just enough for her to feel the steady weight of him. Offering comfort, and Shaak closes her eyes. He’s kind.

All of the clones are so very kind.

For a long, long moment, El-Les is silent. Then, quietly, he sighs, folding his arms over his chest. “I had hoped,” he says, and cuts himself off with a shake of his head. “No matter. The other two, Echo and Fives?”

“With the 501st, under Master Anakin Skywalker,” Shaak says, which is at least slightly happier news. “I am sure they will go on to great things.”

“If they’re given the chance,” El-Les agrees, and as the lift comes to a stop he steps out. “Excuse me, Master Ti, but I think I’ll leave you to find your way to the medbay on your own.”

Shaak inclines her head to him. “I hope the night brings you peace, El-Les,” she murmurs, and El-Les nods in return, then leaves with quick steps. Shaak watches him go, her heart heavy, and breathes out long and slow.

“I remember the names of far too many dead,” she says into the silent corridor. “Sometimes I wonder how many I will be able to remember before I start to forget.”

“As many as you need to until this war is over, General,” Colt says gruffly, but not unkindly. “You're not the kind of person to forget a trooper.”

“Just the kind to send them off to their deaths,” Shaak agrees sadly, and turns.

Before she can step away, though, a hand touches her arm, not quite a hold, but intended for the same purpose. “General,” Colt says, and moves to face her. “The Jedi didn’t start this war.”

Shaak thinks of saying _but we haven’t finished it_. Thinks of saying _we shouldn’t have participated in it_. Thinks of saying _but we weren’t able to prevent it_.

Except that the Jedi have been fighting since the beginning, even the padawans. Except they couldn’t have endured the loss of innocent life that would come if they abstained. Except there are only a few thousand Jedi in a whole hostile galaxy, and they refuse to force their will on others but it means they can never quite stem the tides of corruption.

“No,” she finally says, and lays her hand over Colt’s. “But I for one hope we can end it soon.”

“All of us, sir,” Colt agrees, and lets go. Shaak watches him step back, then straightens her shoulders, lifts her head, and keeps moving.

The medbays are set back in a curve of the long, sweeping building, windows spilling storm-grey light across the floors until the wash of artificial light takes over. Normally, Shaak might give warning that she was entering, but right now the door stands open, so she slips in, Colt on her heels. A med-droid bobs in greeting, but doesn’t pause, and Shaak takes a moment to look over the room. Five clones are present, and Shaak can hear the three furthest from the door arguing lightly. The other two, though—

One looks resigned to the procedures, sitting on his bed with a datapad. But a clone with long, curly hair, tangled and pulled back in a tail, flinches when a droid pokes at him, and Shaak can't stop herself.

“Hello there,” she says, makes it warm and friendly as she crosses the floor to meet them. “You must be the new squad El-Les was telling me about.”

The long-haired clone jerks his head up, and the other one drops his pad, eyes widening sharply. “General!” he says, scrambling like he’s going to get to his feet.

Shaak raises her hands, stilling him. “I'm sorry for the surprise, cadets,” she says, offering them both a smile. “I was away when you started training, but I wanted to see you as soon as I returned.”

The two clones trade looks, and the long-haired one says carefully, “See _us_ , General?”

“Of course,” Shaak says gently, and bows to them, hands clasped in front of her. “I am Jedi Master Shaak Ti. It’s an honor to meet you, cadets.”

Eyes wide, the first one swallows, but gives her a salute. “Cadet Dogma, General! It’s an honor!”

“Uh, Tup,” the long-haired clone offers after a startled second. “I’m—Cadet Tup.”

“Tup and Dogma,” Shaak echoes, committing them to memory, and smiles at the two. Before she can say anything else, though, a med-droid buzzes over, beeping at Dogma urgently, and he flicks Shaak an alarmed look.

“I will see you again, Cadet Dogma,” Shaak promises him, amused. “Please, do not let me interfere.”

“Sorry, General,” Dogma says sheepishly, but slides off his bed and follows the droid into another room.

In the silence that rises in his wake, Shaak regards Tup, who seems like he doesn’t know quite what to say. It makes Shaak regret her position, just a little, because no cadet will ever feel easy in her presence.

“Tup,” she says, and when he looks at her, she smiles. “I have not seen many clones grow their hair so long. It is quite pretty.”

Tup smiles, just a little, and reaches up to touch the tail of his hair. “I like it,” he says. “Gets in the way sometimes, but—it’s mine, you know?”

Because nothing else is. Just the armor to be customized and the changes he can make to his own face. Shaak herself owns only her robes, her lightsaber, and her headdress, but—that was her own choice. The clones never chose this.

“May I?” she asks, raising a hand. Tup flashes her a startled glance, but nods willingly, and Shaak steps closer, touching the very edge of his curls. “Ah,” she says, delighted. “It’s soft.”

Tup eyes her lekku, then smiles. “Guess you don’t have to deal with hair much, General,” he says, and then freezes like he just said something wrong.

Shaak just chuckles. “No,” she agrees warmly. “I do not. But I had Human padawans, and I always enjoyed caring for their hair when they were small.” She doesn’t let the flicker of well-aged grief catch her, at the memory; both of her students are dead, murdered in the course of their service for the Order, and while she mourns them, while she could have done better for them, right now is not the time to dwell.

“Perhaps,” she says, letting go of those thoughts, “pulling it up instead of back would be easier.”

Tup blinks, glancing up at her. “General?”

“To fit under a helmet,” Shaak clarifies, smiling at him. “Perhaps a bun, right where the helmets have extra room.”

Tup glances at her, then coughs. “Uh. If you—if you’ve done it before, you could show me, General?” he asks, then twitches guiltily. “If you’ve got the time, sir! I can—alone, I mean—”

“Oh,” Shaak says, startled but delighted. “Yes, I did such thing for Fe several times. If you would permit me, Tup, I would be honored.”

Tup flushes, but nods. “It’s—it’s all tangled right now,” he says. “We were in training.”

“That’s all right. I'm sure we can find a brush.” Shaak touches his shoulder lightly—

And feels, like an echoing crash, the sound of a blaster from right beside her, a surge of pain, darkness—

 _Good soldiers follow orders_ a voice whispers, ragged.

Deliberately, carefully, Shaak steps back. “I’ll ask the droids,” she says, and the fact that she can keep her voice even is a blessing. “One moment, Tup.”

Colt is watching her from the doorway, eyes narrowed. As Shaak steps away from Tup’s bed, he crosses the room to reach for her, touching her wrist. “General?” he asks, sharp.

Shaak presses her fingers over his for just a moment, relieved beyond words that she feels nothing from him beyond bright concern. “Something’s wrong,” she says softly, and her voice wants to shake but she won't let it, holds on with an iron will until the vision fades around the edges. “Something is going to happen to Tup. Something terrible.”

“It’s war, General,” Colt says, not unsympathetic.

Shaak shakes her head. “Not like that,” she says. “Not—he’s going to lose himself, and terrible things will come of it.”

Colt studies her face, then nods curtly. “You want to watch him,” he says.

It’s hard to know what she wants to do. Shaak folds her hands in front of her, closing her eyes, and breathes out. Reaches for the Force, forever their greatest guide, and—

A touch. An urge, pushing her in the right direction, like a lighthouse in a storm, or a track in the grasslands leading towards her prey.

“Excuse me,” she says to the med-droid that was by Tup’s bed earlier, and it comes to a stop, turning to look at her. “May I ask if you are overseeing the care of Cadet Tup?”

“Yes, General Ti,” it answers. “I am AZI-345211896246498721347. I am in charge of testing for this squad, including CT-5385.”

That’s quite the mouthful, as far as designations go. Shaak hides a small smile, and says, “Please forgive me for the imposition, but I was hoping you could assist me. The Force gives me a sense that something is wrong with Cadet Tup, but it has not manifested physically yet. Could you see if there is anything that regular scans would not pick up? His squad as well, if possible.”

The droid looks at her curiously. “Very well, General Ti,” it allows. “I will schedule them immediately. Is there anything else?”

Shaak hesitates, but then inclines her head. “Please restrict knowledge of these tests to myself and Commander Colt,” she says. “And…is there a hairbrush anywhere in the facilities?”

If the droid thinks it’s an odd request, it doesn’t show it. “Yes, General. I will retrieve one for you. One moment, please.”

As it floats away, Colt glances sideways at her, one hand resting close to his belt. To his blaster, as well, though it’s not overt. Shaak can only just feel the buzz of tension in his frame. “General,” he says lowly. “That’s not exactly subtle, if the Kaminoans catch wind of it.”

“No,” Shaak agrees. “But they have obstructed us at every turn. If they take issue with my actions, I will say that it was their reticence that prompted them.” She gives Colt a wry smile. “This is the right thing to do, Commander. It will lead us to the answer.”

Colt frowns, but inclines his head. “If you're sure, General. You don’t want to wait until the other Jedi gets here?”

“Agen is close,” Shaak acknowledges, “but his talents lie in different areas.”

With a quiet snort, Colt glances at her. “Not quite as charming as you, General?”

Shaak laughs softly. “Agen’s greatest charm is his skill with a lightsaber,” she says, amused. “He is a great warrior, and a wise man. Just…brusque.”

“Might make a nice change,” Colt says, on the edge of teasing for all his expression is perfectly serious. “If you’ll pardon me for saying so, General, sometimes you Jedi talk too much.”

With a chuckle, Shaak folds her hands into her sleeves. “A secret I will confess only to you, Commander: sometimes I think so as well.” She smiles at the med-droid as it nears, taking the hair brush from its claws. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome, General,” the droid returns. “I will begin testing the squad tomorrow. Would you like to be present to oversee?”

Shaak has duties, but—the cadets will likely be alarmed at such a thorough battery of tests, and she wants to be able to reassure them. “Yes,” she confirms. “Thank you, it is much appreciated.”

The droid cocks its head at her. “The clone troopers are Republic property, and you are the representative of the Republic,” it says. “Your requests are to be taken as orders.”

Property. Shaak doesn’t let her expression waver, even as a thread of something close to anger rises, aimed at other powers rather than this one droid. Just bows, instead, and turns, heading back to Tup and letting her expression slide into a more natural smile.

“Forgive the delay, Tup,” she says, and carefully takes a seat on the edge of his bed. “If you would still like me to do this?”

Tup flushes, casting a look at Colt that’s mildly nervous, but says, “Yes, General Ti, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course not,” Shaak says firmly, and as he turns to give her his back, she reaches up, carefully undoing the strip of cloth that looks cut from a training uniform. Then, gently, she starts untangling the curls, easing them loose from their twist. Fe Sun’s hair wasn’t quite the same texture, but her first padawan’s was at least full of waves, and the familiarity lends ease to her motions.

Deliberate, at ease, Colt leans back against the wall beside the bed, eyes sweeping the room, and Shaak wonders if she’s the only one who can see how close his hand is to his blaster, even in a place that’s supposed to be safe. She doesn’t comment, though, just focuses on Tup, on the gradual fading of tension from his shoulders as she teases the knots out carefully.

 _A good soldier follows orders_ , his voice whispers in her memory, hitching, terrified, exhausted. Shaak's heart aches, and she forces herself to focus, to think. To let the worry go, at least for now. At least until tomorrow.

“I like to think that Togruta understand what it is to decorate oneself with marks of individuality, even as part of a larger whole,” she says softly, “On my home planet, one of the greatest rituals is the hunting of an akul. It is a very old tradition among the Togruta, and very highly revered. Only those who hunt an akul and kill it are permitted to wear its teeth. We treat it as a right of passage, to hunt a beast that normally hunts us.”

Tup makes to glance over his shoulder at her, then freezes. “Is that—that headdress that you're wearing, sir?” he asks.

Shaak hums. “It is indeed. I returned to my homeworld when I was made a Knight, at just twenty years, just so I could have my own hunt. Would you like to hear the story of it?”

“Yes, sir,” Tup says quickly. “Your planet’s Shili, right?”

“It is,” Shaak agrees, warm. “It is a beautiful place, with many long stretches of scrubland and deep forest valleys. We are hunters by nature, even in these days, and though we have cities, many of us still live in tribes, roaming the scrubland.” She pauses, working out a particularly stubborn knot, and smiles. “It was there that a Jedi found me, when I was a child. And it was there I returned, when I was a Knight.”

Colt is listening, too, gaze flickering to her in between careful scans of the room, and Shaak doesn’t let her voice waver, spinning out the tale of her hunt until all of the tension has bled from both clones and the air rests easy around her again.

The Force is still whispering warnings, but they’re quieter now, less vicious. Shaak catalogues each one, then sets it aside to share with Agen and Colt later.

For now, this will do.

Shaak couldn’t save her padawans, can't save the deployed clones from their deaths, but—

There's a murmur, at the edge of the Force, that there's a path that will let her save Tup, and she’ll walk it as far as she possibly can.

The misting rain doesn’t abate with whatever sort of sunrise comes to this planet. It’s still dim, and the thunder hasn’t faded, but there’s more light than before, fewer swallowing shadows beneath the trees. Cody doesn’t like the lack of visibility as they make their way through the next valley, and he likes the sucking mud left over from the downpour even less. There’s not much to do but slog through it, though, following the overgrown road as it dips in and out of the swampy ground.

Whatever this planet is, it’s rapidly inching up in his ranking of least favorite places. Might already be at the top, even, if he’s being truthful. About the only saving grace is the fact that nothing _else_ has tried to eat them on their march.

Well. _Yet_. Cody's not _that_ hopeful about the trend continuing.

“Isn't it kind of weird, though?” Fives asks. He’s been talking for a while, but since it’s mainly to Kix, Cody hasn’t bothered really paying attention. Not beyond a few sideways glances at the way Fives is dressed, bits and pieces of plastoid armor with a Jedi robe on top. It should look ridiculous, but somehow he’s managing to make it look acceptable.

Cody's putting it down to the fact that even Mace's clothes reject all accusations of absurdity with cool dignity. Fives certainly doesn’t have much dignity of his own.

Kix doesn’t sigh, which is better than Cody would have done. “It’s not _that_ weird,” he says. “You know the 91st loves him.”

“Yeah, but loving the fact that _Mace Windu_ is your Jedi General is different than him being, you know, _nice_ ,” Fives protests, and Cody wants to roll his eyes. “And he’s _really_ nice. Why does no one say that?”

Well. That’s at least slightly better than how Cody was expecting this conversation to go.

“Do you really think General Windu wants people calling him nice?” Kix asks dryly. “He might just not let most people know.”

Cody looks ahead of them, to where Mace and Anakin are very determinedly not speaking. Or, well, to where Anakin is moodily ignoring Mace and Mace is apparently unconcerned by this fit of petulance. Cody had wanted to put the Jedi right in the middle of the group, but with the vornskrs’ attack Mace had insisted that they would take the lead. Like _bait_ , and Cody doesn’t like that. He’s got his blaster rifle close at hand, though, and an eye on the trees. If anything so much as twitches, it’s getting shot.

“But he _is_ ,” Fives insists. “It’s the truth!”

“He’s the one who killed the Original,” Kix says after a moment. “Even if he is, that’s going to be the first thing anyone thinks of. He’s the Order’s champion, and he managed to kill the Jedi Killer.”

“Wonder how Commander Ponds took the news that _that_ was who he got,” Fives muses.

“It’s Commander Ponds,” Kix says dryly. “Probably well.”

“Boring,” Fives mutters, and then asks, “Did you know Jedi can see ghosts?”

“Really?” Kix asks, startled. “Like, souls of the dead? _Ghosts_?”

Fives shrugs. “I guess so. General Windu told me so himself.”

Cody didn’t know that. He tamps down a flicker of mild irritation, picking up his pace slightly, and sidesteps a curve in the path to catch up with Mace. When he falls into step, Mace gives him a sideways look, but doesn’t protest.

“Chatter?” he asks instead.

Cody sighs at his amused tone. “Least they're not Waxer and Boil,” he says optimistically, and Mace snorts. Cody lets the comfortable quiet settle for a long moment, then glances ahead of them, at the rise of another hill, and asks, “Any idea how far we are from anything?”

Mace shakes his head. “The valleys make it hard to see the horizon,” he says, “and to judge distance. If there are other minds near us, though, they're well-hidden.”

Hopefully there aren’t any, in that case; Cody hates skilled enemies. The stupid ones are a hell of a lot easier to deal with. “How far can you sense?” he asks.

“It depends,” Mace says. “On the place, on the minds that are there to sense, on how strongly the Force shows through there. This planet…” He pauses, frowning. “It’s strong in the Force, but there's something wrong with it.”

“The Sith?” Cody offers.

Mace inclines his head. “I believe so. Too many centuries of dark emotions left to fester, of people using the Force for selfish purposes.”

Cody considers that for a moment, weighing something he’s wanted to ask Obi-Wan for a while now. “When you talk about the Dark Side,” he says finally, carefully, “what does that mean? A dark power, or something that’s the opposite of what you use, or…?”

Ahead of them, Anakin turns his head just faintly, like he’s listening but pretending not to.

“The Force is the energy that connects everything,” Mace says. “What I use, and what the Sith Lord uses—there's no difference except in how.” He turns his head, glancing over his shoulder, and Cody looks too, finds Fives creeping up to listen with an exasperated Kix behind him and kind of wants to roll his eyes. Mace doesn’t seem to mind, though; he just faces forward again, and asks, “Do you know the Jedi Code?”

Cody blinks, caught off guard. “That’s—no emotion, no attachment, right?”

For a long moment, Mace doesn’t answer. “A part of it,” he finally allows. “But in each phrase’s entirety, they are _there is no emotion, there is peace. There is no passion, there is serenity._ If a Jedi loses control, uses their connection to the Force to harm out of vengeance, or lets themselves be led stray from helping others out of a selfishness to keep what is theirs, that is the Dark Side. It is the opposite of the Code, and the opposite of what Jedi do.”

Before the marriage, Cody likely would have said Mace was emotionless. Might have called him cold. Serenity, though—that’s a better word for it. A carefully structured sort of serenity, but he’s not emotionless, that’s for certain.

“Emotions trip you up in a firefight, too,” he says after a moment.

Mace's mouth curves, just slightly. “Yes. However, when a Jedi loses control, we have a tendency to crack duracrete and levitate sharp objects without meaning to. Control is a practical thing, but it served us well as diplomats.”

Not that they're diplomats anymore. Generals, now, and Cody looks away. “It’ll serve you again,” he says, even though he’s not entirely sure he believes it.

“Yes,” Mace says quietly, though Cody can't tell whether he agrees or not. “When the war is over.”

The words don’t feel like they once did. Cody keeps his eyes forward, trying to pinpoint the difference. Maybe, once, _when the war is over_ meant uncertainty, the fear that the clones would all just be decommissioned. But now—

“It can't come too soon,” Cody says, and means it.

Mace pauses, casting him a look, and there’s something in his face that Cody can't read. “You sound as though you already have plans,” he says, more invitation to share them than any sort of tease.

Cody has thought about it, of course. Has considered and dreamed, but—

Now it’s a reality. Almost.

“Yeah,” he says, smiling a little. “I'm going to find a nice bed and sleep for a straight week, and then find a mountaintop somewhere and just—sit for a while.”

Rex calls him boring when he says that. Talks about bars and benders and cities all across the galaxy he wants to visit, but—

Mace doesn’t. Just smiles, very faintly, and says, “That sounds very much like my own plans.”

Cody chuckles. “Most mountaintops are big enough for two,” he offers.

“Most beds, as well,” Mace says gravely, and behind them Fives chokes, suddenly and desperately.

Cody's getting rather fond of causing that kind of reaction.

Grinning, he tells Mace, “Careful there. People might think we’re married.”

“I thought the rings gave it away.” Mace's tone is perfectly deadpan, but ahead of them Anakin groans, and humor curls in Mace's gaze. “Unless there's something you aren’t telling me, Cody.”

“You're the one who filed the paperwork,” Cody counters.

“ _Married_?” Fives squawks.

In illustration, Cody tugs off a glove and holds up a hand, very clearly showing the ring he’s wearing. “Thought Rex had told people,” he says, perfectly mild. “It’s not like we were keeping it a secret.”

“Only from Master Obi-Wan,” Anakin mutters.

“You are welcome to tell him, if you’d like,” Mace says courteously, and Anakin shoots him a look that’s absolutely full of horror. In response, Mace just raises a brow, point made, and Anakin rolls his eyes and looks away again.

Chuckling, Cody pulls his glove back on and resettles his blaster. “Maybe we can tell him when we find comm equipment,” he suggests. “Motivate him to come find us faster.”

“For purposes of murder, yes,” Mace says dryly.

“I’ll protect you,” Cody tells him. “Pinky swear.”

Mace snorts, but doesn’t argue. Looks up the trail instead, and asks, “Would you be willing to tell me something about Kamino?”

“Kamino?” Cody frowns, not entirely sure where the question came from. “Sure.”

“I've been wondering why are no records that the Force has manifested in the clones,” Mace says, quietly enough that it’s mostly private. “Even small talents for it appear in one of every few hundred thousand sentients. But no clone has a registered midichlorian count.”

It takes a second for Cody to digest the question, a moment longer for him to parse it out. “I—don’t think we were ever tested,” he says, a little bewildered. “If we’re all clones of one man who couldn’t use the Force, isn't it logical that none of us could?”

“There are variations between the clones,” Mace points out. “Hair color and eye color, particularly. There's no reason midichlorian count couldn’t also differ.” He’s silent for a moment, and then says, “Most sentients test their children, in the Republic. But Kamino isn't part of the Republic yet.”

“Can't imagine the Kaminoans would want to, either,” Cody says quietly. “Do the testing, I mean. If a clone became a Jedi…”

Mace smiles, just enough for Cody to catch it. “A chaotic situation,” he allows. “Clones might have to be treated as something other than property, then.”

That doesn’t sound like it’s an idle question. That sounds like Mace has a _plan_. Brows rising, Cody stares at him, and asks, “Mace?”

Mace just tips his head and keeps his silence, but—

He’s being _particularly_ nice to Fives, Cody realizes. Fives is wearing Mace's robes. Fives was _targeted_ by the vornskrs, even when the creatures entirely ignored Cody and Kix. That’s—

“Heck,” he mutters, rubbing a hand over his eyes. Fives. Force-sensitive. Now _there's_ a headache waiting to happen.

Mace isn't laughing at him in a way that is _definitely_ laughing at him, and Cody doesn’t appreciate it at all.


	15. Chapter 15

“Does it _ever_ stop raining?” Anakin asks in disgust.

Mace, having surrendered his hooded cloak to Fives because of his cracked armor and torn undersuit, is not feeling all that much more charitable towards the weather right now. He grimaces, wiping a hand over his face, and blinks water out of his eyes, but it’s only a very temporary fix. “Not yet,” he says. “I think this is less a storm and more the planet’s atmosphere.”

Anakin pulls a face, though he mostly looks resigned. “The lightning was giving that away,” he says, and shoves his dripping hair back with a sigh. “I never thought I’d miss a desert.”

Mace can't argue; he might even take Tatooine over this soggy mudball. “I would even take a break in the clouds.”

Nodding unhappily, Anakin lifts a hand to shield his eyes as he squints at the rise of the hill they're halfway up. “Or a change in scenery. There are too many trees.”

“You two gripe as much as shinies, sirs,” Kix says, amused. “No offense.”

Anakin looks at Mace, blinking rain out of his eyes. Mace looks back, sodden and displeased about it. “Says the man in full armor, with a _helmet_ ,” Anakin tells him.

Cody, a pace behind him, hums thoughtfully. “They're nice and cozy, too,” he says, which is uncalled for.

“ _I'm_ getting wet,” Fives says in unhappy protest, waving a dripping arm. “It’s gross.”

“You _still_ have a helmet, and we don’t,” Anakin retorts. “As soon as we’re somewhere civilized I'm going to take a bath for a _month_.”

Kix is trying not to laugh, something Mace can sense clearly. And disproves of _deeply_ , in addition. “Well, if you want to pay attention to something besides the weather, it looks like someone fulfilled your wish, General Skywalker. Fewer trees, see?”

A little started, Anakin turns to follow his pointing finger, and Mace looks too. Up ahead, there’s relatively more light on the road, a break in the trees that they haven’t seen since the Sith temple. The rain is coming down harder, but at least there aren’t the interminable _drips_ that have been dropping on them all day, each one feeling like a full upended glass of water.

“Thank the Force,” Anakin mutters, lengthening his stride. He makes it out into the open ground, just as the ground levels out, and then stops dead, right in the middle of the path.

“Anakin?” Mace asks sharply, and ducks under one last spray of branches to make it onto the crest of the hill. Beyond the trees, the ground changes, turning rocky and muddy as it tumbles down into a sheer cliff above another valley. There's a waterfall somewhere close, and more light, and—

Beyond the slope, a city lies in ruin.

“Kriffing hells,” Anakin says, staring down at the expanse of broken and crumbling buildings. “It’s _huge_.”

It is. Mace traces the edges of it, faded out into the distance. The jungle and the swamp have reclaimed the edges, so it’s hard to even say where it ends, and there's aged green scattered through what must have once been streets. A handful of skyscrapers stand broken and gutted, spilling plants, but others have fallen, crushing sections of the city to be reclaimed by the swamp.

Above it all, a building of black stone and dark glass looms, eerily untouched by the decay around it. There are no lights running up the spire, but—

The symbol carved into the front of it is perfectly clear, even from a great distance.

“Master?” Anakin asks quietly.

Mace takes a breath, releases it. Catalogues the burn of alarm, the wash of horror, the threads of disgust, and lets them go.

“That symbol,” he says. “On the citadel. It once meant that the Sith Emperor and his Dark Council were in residence.”

Cody's indrawn breath is sharp, alarmed. “How likely is it that they still are?” he asks, grip tightening on his blaster. Mace admires the bravery behind the motion, but—if the whole of the Dark Council was in residence, a full force of Jedi would likely fail against them. The five of them would be brief amusement and nothing more.

“Not very,” he says after a moment. There's a thread of suspicion growing as to the planet they're on, but—Jedi chronicles about the Galactic War tend to skim over the scenery, so it’s hard to be sure. “It’s been at least a thousand years since the Sith Empire existed.”

“I don’t think there are any people living down there, either,” Kix says after a moment. “I don’t see any lights, and it doesn’t look like anyone’s tried to rebuild.”

“There’s probably comm equipment, at least?” Fives offers, though he’s frowning. “Somewhere in the creepy black city. That’s abandoned. And probably haunted.”

Anakin pauses, then grimaces. “Do Sith leave Force ghosts?” he asks Mace.

“Yes,” Mace says grimly. “They do.”

“Fantastic,” Anakin mutters, and eyes the cliff. “I don’t think we’re going to find anywhere better to scavenge for parts, though. That tower looks mostly intact. There has to be something in there we can use to call for help.”

Whatever they find is likely to be a millennia in age, and therefore unfamiliar, but it’s certainly better than wandering back into the jungle and looking for help among the trees and vornskrs. Mace inclines his head, and with a crooked smile Anakin claps him on the shoulder.

“Cheer up, Master Windu,” he says. “What’s the worst that could happen? Ghosts can't hurt us.” Taking several running steps, he flips over the edge of the cliff, tumbling down out of sight.

With an annoyed sigh, Mace follows far more slowly, pausing at the top. “If you haven’t been eaten, Skywalker,” he calls down, “help me get the troopers down.”

“Sure!” Anakin calls up from the bottom, and Mace can see his much smaller figure skirt a wide pool and duck under a crooked tree as he gets to a safe distance.

“Get us down?” Kix asks warily. “You mean, with the Force?”

“We don’t have grappling equipment,” Cody points out, glancing over the edge and then sighing. “Who wants to go first?”

Kix groans, but steps forward. “Medkit on or off?” he asks.

“On,” Mace says, and raises a brow at him. “Jedi are capable of levitating a building with enough concentration, Kix. Your medkit is hardly a concern.”

That, at least, makes Kix relax a little. “Right. Sorry, sir. Should I…do anything?”

“No.” Mace checks that Anakin is watching, signals to him, and then raises a hand. It’s easy to see the shape of Kix in the Force, to concentrate for a bare instant and lift him off his feet. Kix stiffens, but he doesn’t otherwise react as Mace carefully lowers him down the sheer cliff until Anakin can catch him and settle him safely on the ground.

“Wow,” Fives says, peering over the edge. “That’s a long way down. General Skywalker just _jumped_?”

The attack on Rishi Station was recent enough that it makes sense Fives isn't used to the way Jedi do things yet. With a flicker of amusement, Mace raises a brow, and says, “Height is no obstacle to a Jedi.”

“Maybe sometimes it should be,” Cody mutters. When Mace raises a brow at him, though, all he says is, “Jedi like to throw themselves off as many high things as they can find. I assume it’s a cultural thing.”

 _It’s fun_ , Mace doesn’t say, lest it ruin the carefully-cultivated impression that he’s never had fun in his life. “It’s an expedient way to get to the bottom,” he offers instead, and asks Fives, “Are you ready?”

“Yes, sir.” Fives straightens and gives him a grin. “If I move, will you drop me?”

“No,” Mace says, with an idea of where this is going and quite a lot of amusement.

“Even if I move a _lot_?”

“Fives,” Cody says suspiciously. “ _Why_ do you need to move a lot?”

Mace catches Anakin's wave to signal he’s ready, then reaches out. “You won't be in danger,” he says, and Fives _grins_. Twists, ducks his head, and Cody jerks an aborted step forward as Fives suddenly flips over in the air.

“ _Fives_ ,” he says, alarmed.

“It’s fine,” Mace says, tolerant, and Fives laughs as he sails down the cliff-face, spinning and tumbling as he goes.

“Force,” Cody mutters. “It’s really not. He’s going to give me a _heart attack_.”

“ARC trooper material,” Mace observes mildly.

Cody's still wearing his helmet, so Mace can't see his expression, but he definitely feels the sideways look that gets him. “I think you mean Jedi material,” Cody says dryly. He pauses, and then asks, “Will the temple even agree? We’re adults, not kids, and General Skywalker said he almost wasn’t accepted because of his age.”

Mace doesn’t answer for a moment. The memory aches, because it was his last glimpse of Qui-Gon’s defiance. Because he wonders, sometimes, if Qui-Gon would be alive if Mace had bent, had pushed for them to accept Anakin immediately. “Anakin was denied entrance to the temple at first, yes,” he says after a long beat. “However, it wasn’t solely because of his age. He denied his feelings rather than face them and accept them, as Jedi do. As Jedi _must_. It concerned us.”

“Must?” Cody asks, and Mace lets out a quietly rueful breath.

“We sense the emotions of entire planets, Cody,” he says. “Imprints of battlefields and old tragedies can cripple us even centuries later. A Jedi has to be able to work through emotions and release them, and Anakin has never made a habit of such things.”

There's a hesitation, and then Cody sighs. “He really hasn’t,” he agrees wryly. Slinging his blaster over his back, he eyes the edge of the cliff, and then asks, “Me next, I assume.”

He doesn’t sound overly enthusiastic about it, and Mace considers him for a long moment. “I can carry you with me, if you would like,” he offers.

Cody's breath of relief is very obvious over the speakers. “If you wouldn’t mind, I think I’d much prefer that,” he says.

Mace inclines his head, stepping forward. In the armor, Cody is a good handful of inches taller and quite a bit bulkier, but Mace loops an arm around his waist, checks that their landing place is clear, and says, “Put your arm over my shoulders. Move with me.”

Cody's arm curls over the back of his neck, and he grips tightly as Mace takes two steps. At the very edge of the cliff, he sucks in a breath, and Mace pauses.

“You won't fall,” he says quietly.

“I know that,” Cody says, dry. “But usually I’ve got at least some rappelling gear between me and a drop like this.”

“This time,” Mace says, “you have a Jedi.” When he takes another step, Cody moves with him, and Mace leaps lightly from the edge. There's a sharp breath in his ear, a hand fisting in his tunic, but Mace doesn’t react, just slows their fall until it’s perfectly controlled. The ground closes, but not at any speed as to be dangerous, and Mace drops them onto a clear patch of boggy ground with a soft thump.

For a long moment, Cody doesn’t move. Then, carefully, he releases Mace's tunic and snorts. “If that’s what it’s always like when you throw yourself off things, I can see why it’s a Jedi habit,” he says, and straightens.

“Coruscant,” Mace says blandly, “is the perfect place for learning, as well.”

Cody pauses, like he’s imagining bunches of younglings going out in droves to throw themselves from high places. Which is entirely untrue; Mace only ever went out with other padawans. Younglings have a hard time getting passes out into the city.

 _“Jedi,”_ Cody finally says, exasperation and amusement in equal measure in his voice.

Mace doesn’t bother arguing. He steps away, scanning the ground around them, and it’s only mildly comforting to be out of the tight confines of the forest. The increased visibility here weighs against the knowledge of what’s waiting for them and comes up wanting.

“There are more vornskrs,” Anakin says behind him, and when Mace turns to look at him, he tips his head toward the north. “Up there. I can feel them.”

Mace closes his eyes, reaching out, and just barely brushes jagged, hungry minds, dark and devouring. “Residences,” he says, and opens his eyes again, unsettled by the number of vornskrs. “They were likely kept as guards once. The Sith of the Dark Council would have been happy enough to set them on members of their own kind.”

Anakin grimaces, fingers curling around the hilt of his lightsaber. “And now their ghosts are probably going to set them on us,” he says.

“Not precisely.” Mace judges the closest edge of the ruined city, the road almost entirely sunk into the soft ground. “Sith don’t leave Force ghosts the way Jedi do. There’s no higher understanding of the Light Side that they channel. All they can be are imprints of rage and malice, caught in the physical world.” He glances back at Anakin, seeing the consideration on his face, and asks, “It’s a great irony, isn't it? The Sith seek immortality, but in seeking it they lose all chances of finding it. Force ghosts only manifest from selfless intentions.”

“Immortality?” Fives asks, and flicks a wary glance at the city. “Is that their whole thing?”

Mace inclines his head. “It’s the reason they turned to the Dark Side to begin with,” he says. “Greed, and rage, and pain. But such things twist the Force, and nothing good comes of it.”

Anakin looks away. “Aren’t there other reasons to go looking for immortality?” he asks, and his voice is harsh. “Maybe they wanted to save someone.”

“At the cost of thousands of other lives?” Mace asks, and—

Remembers Obi-Wan’s words in the temple, about his worry for Anakin. Remembers Anakin's face during their wedding, when he and Cody made it clear that duty came first. There's a thread here, something alarming, and Mace doesn’t care for the form it’s taking.

“Anakin,” he says quietly. “The power of the Dark Side takes. It corrupts. It might save a life, but it will bleed that life from innocents. Younglings, or sacrifices, or anyone the Sith can reach. You’ve seen the chrysalides. Do you think anything else touched by Sith power changes for the better?”

“What if that one person is someone important, though?” Anakin protests. “Like—like the chancellor, or Cody. Wouldn’t you want to save them?”

“I’d rather die,” Cody says without so much as a hesitation. “If you were going to kill innocent people to save me, I’d rather go out right then and there. And if you went through with it, I’d hate you for it. Even if you were killing enemies. That’s not the kind of thing people can accept, General.”

Anakin looks from Cody to Mace, and his expression is still tight, unhappy. Mace can feel the stirrings of something dark under the surface, one sharp flicker that reads _regret regret regret I did something terrible_ —

And then it’s gone, tamped back into Anakin's usual vast but steady power, and Mace can't catch so much as a hint of it.

“Come on,” Anakin says, turning away. “At least the citadel’s going to be easy to find.”

For a moment, Mace can't pick his words. Watches, narrowly, as Anakin walks away, and—

“What’d you say about denying emotions?” Cody murmurs beside him, sounding faintly concerned.

Silently, Mace inclines his head. Considers, carefully, Anakin's reaction, and then thinks of Haruun Kal, his choice in the jungle. Lowering his lightsaber, even when Depa had every intention of killing him, rather than so much as waver in his hold against the darkness.

He wonders, abruptly, what Anakin's reaction to Vaapad would be. Would it serve as a timely warning, or a foothold for the Dark Side?

“This planet,” he says quietly, grimly, “may have a poor effect on Anakin.”

The tilt of Cody's helmet is thoughtful. “What about you?” he asks.

Mace isn't arrogant enough to say he’ll be fine. Pauses, turning the question over, weighing it against his sense of self, and then breathes out.

“I believe,” he says finally, “that I will not give in to the Dark Side, regardless of outside factors.”

He can feel Cody's gaze on him, heavy. “Because you won't be tempted? Or because you’d die before you do?”

Mace doesn’t answer, but—that’s likely answer enough.

“Anakin is getting too far ahead,” he says instead, and follows the disappearing figure into the moss- and grass-covered ruins. There are quick steps behind him, not the careful placement of Cody's but more careless, less deliberate. A moment later Fives falls in behind him, and then hesitates like he wants to say something.

Mace turns his head, checking that Cody and Kix are bringing up the rear, close enough that he can guard them easily if he needs to, and then raises a brow at Fives in silent question.

“Sorry, sir,” Fives says, faintly sheepish. “I just—the Sith had a whole _empire_? And this was part of it?”

“Yes,” Mace answers. Sighs, rueful, and says, “Until ten years ago, the Jedi considered the Sith extinct, but once their empire was just as powerful as the Republic.” Ahead of them, the dark citadel looms, lit by flickers of lightning, and Mace grimaces. “If this planet was the home of the emperor, there are very few options for its identity.”

“You know where we are?” Kix asks, surprised.

Mace shakes his head. “Not entirely. Not yet. But there are only a handful of options, if it was a seat of imperial power.” He ducks under a drooping tree, its roots anchored in crumbling duracrete, and glances up at the dark sky. The citadel likely has a hangar. The ships within it are old, but—maybe there’s a chance they can get one spaceworthy again. He would rather not leave their rescue to the chance that someone can fly through the Caldera twice.

“Is that what Dooku’s trying to do?” Cody asks, dark. “Rebuild a Sith empire?”

“Potentially,” Mace allows after a moment. “However, I believe Dooku is truly convinced that the Separatist cause is a good one, and it’s hard to blame him for that, even if he’s done terrible things in the name of it. But whatever master he serves is likely one of the old Sith, seeking the downfall of the Jedi and the return of power for his kind.”

“Kriff,” Fives mutters, unhappy. “Because one war wasn’t bad enough. This is like two or three stacked on top of each other.”

“Indeed,” Mace agrees dryly. A waterfall where the road used to be forces a detour, since the clones can't leap it as easily as a Jedi, and he picks his way across the broken pieces of a tall obelisk, the black stone seeming to swallow the dim light entirely. Anakin is ahead of them, tucked back underneath the overhang of a building that’s been overrun by trees and fungus and poking at an old control pad set into a wall. As Mace approaches, he glances up and grins, clearly ignoring his own outburst from moments ago.

“Look,” he says, jabbing at a button. There's a faint flicker of blue light that dies away again a moment later, and Anakin looks victorious. “There’s still power. And if a place that looks like this can still manage that much, I bet we’ll be able to find something useful in the citadel.”

“Many things, I'm sure,” Mace allows, and doesn’t push. He’ll let Anakin stew for a while, or pretend not to think about things, and then drag him into meditating later. It’s a technique that served him well when Depa was at her most recalcitrant, caught up in the horrors of being a teenager. For all that Anakin is older, Mace suspects it will work on him as well.

Anakin pauses, frowning. “You think it’s going to be that dangerous?” he asks. “It’s been a thousand years, Master.”

“The Sith may not have achieved immortality, but I'm sure their booby traps come close,” Mace says. “And beyond that, the Sith emperors were fond of terrible punishments, and used Sith alchemy freely.”

“Chrysalid rancors?” Anakin asks, resigned.

“I have a very bad feeling that they will be the least of it,” Mace says, and not _just_ for the way Anakin blanches.

“Karking _fantastic_ ,” Anakin mutters, but he falls into step as Mace turns back towards the citadel. Cody, waiting at the edge of the building, tilts his head, and Mace gives him a wordless nod as he passes. Things aren’t quite fine yet, but they're tolerable.

Obi-Wan was right to be worried, Mace thinks. There’s anger in Anakin, and he’s strangling it, pushing it down, not dealing with it. Sometime in the very near future, it’s going to explode, and then they’ll all have to live with the fallout. Unless, of course, something can be done to help him face it.

Figuring out how to address it, though, while stranded on a hostile planet, with Mace as someone Anakin has never cared for—that’s going to be a job and a half, and Mace isn't looking forward to it in the least.

“Have you slept at all?” Rex asks Obi-Wan, judgmental even as he passes over a cup of caf.

“Have you?” Obi-Wan retorts, and he hates caf, but he takes the cup anyway, brain fuzzy with exhaustion. “Any word on that ship?”

Rex shakes his head, and Obi-Wan can see far too many lines in his face that weren’t there two days ago. “Not yet. One of the engineers said the plating broke during the stress test, so they need to try with a different alloy.”

And even that might not get them through the Caldera, or back again, which is the trickier part. Obi-Wan grimaces, setting the cup aside to rub his hands over his face.

“I can't feel Anakin,” he says, a confession he wouldn’t make except to Rex, except like this, alone in the darkness of his room. “I can't feel him anywhere.”

“We’ll find them,” Rex says quietly, steadily, and hesitates. Then, deliberately, he reaches out, resting a bare hand on the back of Obi-Wan’s neck. “They're still out there.”

Because it’s not just Obi-Wan’s student and commander and friend lost right now. It’s Rex's general, his men, his best friend. Obi-Wan sighs, then forces himself up straight and shakes his head.

“Of course they are,” he says. “A nebula isn't the worst barrier we’ve faced. Or overcome.”

Before Rex can answer, Obi-Wan’s comm chirps. Instantly, Obi-Wan reaches for it where it’s lying on the corner of the desk, accepting the transmission, and says, “Yes?”

“General,” a clone says, concerned. “There’s a ship docking, and the pilot is looking for you, sir.”

“For me?” Obi-Wan raises a brow, casting a look at Rex, who seems equally startled. “May I ask who it is?”

“Commander Grey, sir.”

“Grey,” Obi-Wan echoes, frowning. He generally remembers every clone he encounters, but the name doesn’t ring a bell. He glances at Rex again, who shrugs, and says, “I’ll be right down, thank you.”

“Maybe someone from command?” Rex asks with a frown of his own.

“Or a new batch of shinies,” Obi-Wan allows, though he’s doubtful they would be sent all the way out to the edge of the Outer Rim. He rises quickly, collecting his lightsaber and fitting his comm over his arm, and asks, “Shall we?”

“If it’s another disaster, I'm running away and joining a band of pirates,” Rex says wryly, but he gets the door for Obi-Wan and follows him out, down two decks and out into the hall beyond the main hangar. The craft has already landed, sleek and grey and only faintly scorched, and Obi-Wan looks for a battalion symbol—

Footsteps ring on the ramp just as he catches the edge of a familiar presence, and he takes a sharp step back and curses.

“Sir?” Rex demands, alarmed and already reaching for his blaster.

“It’s _Depa_ ,” Obi-Wan says, with a fair amount of dread. Depa Billaba is nothing to sneeze at, and she adores her master. Mace disappeared alongside Obi-Wan’s former padawan, and he’s absolutely sure that even having been fighting a war at the time won't be enough to save him, in the face of that.

“You don’t have to use that tone, you know,” Depa says, amused, and a moment later she appears around the side of the ship, ducking beneath the wing and straightening. Her eyes are sharp, and for all her mouth is tight she looks the way she always does as she approaches. Obi-Wan flicks a glance at the padawan following at her heels, the clone commander behind them, and steels himself.

“Master Billaba,” he says. “You felt it?”

“Of course I did,” Depa says, not ungently, and reaches out. Her long, warm fingers close over Obi-Wan’s, and she says, “You look as though I'm about to yell at you, Obi-Wan. How long has it been since you slept?”

“Too long,” Rex says, very unhelpfully, from behind Obi-Wan’s shoulder.

Obi-Wan gives him an offended look, but doesn’t pull his hands away from Depa's grip. “We have a whole team of engineers trying to outfit a ship so it will survive the Caldera,” he says, maybe a little too quickly. “As soon as they have it, I plan to go myself—”

“You _what_?” Rex demands, and Obi-Wan restrains a wince. Well. Maybe he’d forgotten to mention that part.

“And I’ll be with you,” Depa says, warm but unwavering. “Obi-Wan. You aren’t alone in this. Master Mace and Anakin and their troops will survive until we reach them. I know it.”

Depa's presence is light and warmth and golden things, and Obi-Wan lets its kindness settle him, ease the cracks that have started to show through. Rex has been his anchor, since Anakin vanished, but—Rex is missing people, too, and it’s not fair to put everything on him. “Force, Depa,” he says ruefully, and closes his eyes. “I'm so glad to see you.”

Depa pulls him into a hug without hesitation, tight enough to ground him. “When we find that padawan of yours,” she says into his ear, “I’m going to dye him green from head to toe. Hopefully that will remind him not to rush into dangerous nebulas from now on.”

Rex laughs, startled, and Obi-Wan can't help a smile either. “I’ll hold him down for you,” he promises, and lets himself lean on Depa for one more moment before he pulls back and releases her. “Ahsoka can likely be convinced to play bait, too.”

“It’s a plan, then.” Depa's smile contains exactly as much mischief as he remembers from his days as a padawan, tagging along behind the older girl despite the fear that thinking of her master inspired. Depa never seemed to think Mace was even slightly intimidating, and Obi-Wan’s always admired her nerve.

“Assuming someone hasn’t already killed him,” Obi-Wan allows after a moment.

“General Skywalker can run fast,” is Rex's opinion. “I'm sure he’s fine.”

“Mace?” Obi-Wan asks, raising his brows as he catches the edges of that image. As hilarious as it is, it's also entirely incorrect. “Oh, no, my dear captain. I meant Cody.”

Rex pauses, digesting that. “Well,” he says after a moment. “If Cody _did_ shoot the general, I'm pretty sure he’d just aim to wound. Probably.”

Obi-Wan has had too much experience with Anakin being insufferable in unpleasant situations to have that much hope, but he lets Rex keep his illusions.


	16. Chapter 16

The city is boggy and overgrown and dark, and nightfall only makes it darker.

“You know,” Cody says quietly, right at Mace's elbow, “if we do make it to the citadel, we’re going to have to face whatever’s in there in the dark. I don’t really like those odds.”

Mace doesn’t, either. Doesn’t like any of these odds, with the whole planet around them a hostile force, with too much darkness in the Force here. Too many terrible things that bled out into it, turning it, warping it.

The citadel at the center of the city is its own warp, grim and gaunt and looming, untouched by time.

“The alternative,” he says quietly, “is sleeping out here.” Which won't lend itself to sleep at all; there are animals out here, minds in the shadows that only feel like hunger and rage, and Mace has never dealt directly with chrysalides before the vornskrs here, but—he’s willing to guess that’s what they are. At the very least they're aggressive, and that’s reason enough to put solid walls between them and the creatures.

Cody's breath is rueful. “Yeah. I don’t suppose your Jedi senses can find us a nice bunker somewhere in the city.”

Mace snorts. “That would be convenient,” he agrees, and skirts a sprawling tangle of glowing fungus. The pale blue brilliance lights up the air around them, fading back out into velvety blackness until the next pool of light takes over, and it makes everything even eerier, more haunting. The ruins loom like stripped bones above them, the ground sucks at their boots, and the fungus glows like eyes watching their passage from the dark.

This place is evil, and Darker than any Mace has left before. If it didn’t hold their one hope of escaping the planet—

But it does, and they have to brave it for that reason, no matter how distasteful.

“No secret bunker senses?” Cody asks. “I’ll strike that one from the list, then.”

“Only on certain occasions,” Mace allows, and when Cody makes an aggrieved noise, he can't help a faint smile. “The Force provides us with what we need to know.”

There's a moment of very judgmental silence. “What, it just…tells you? When you need it?” Cody asks skeptically. “Like some back-alley fortune teller on Nar Shaddaa?”

“Back-alley fortune tellers are often Force-sensitives without training,” Mace says mildly. “Sentients whose parents didn’t want to send them to a Jedi temple, or who weren’t tested for a midichlorian count. I've been told it’s a very common fallback.”

Cody has nothing to say to that, very exasperatedly. Hiding his humor carefully, Mace raises a brow at him and asks, “Was there a point you were trying to make, Cody?”

“ _Jetii_ ,” Cody mutters, and nudges him sideways, out of the way of a scattering of broken stones. “Glass,” he says in explanation, and Mace nods his thanks.

“Sir,” Kix says, glancing back from where he’s following Anakin. “Are we going all the way to the tower tonight?”

“We should,” Anakin says, but he slows, coming to a stop at the edge of the light. “It’s not that far ahead.”

“We don’t know that it will be safe to sleep there if we _do_ make it, General,” Kix points out.

Cody glances at Mace, who guesses the direction of his thoughts and inclines his head. Taking that as agreement, Cody says, “He’s right, sir. We have no idea what’s inside. If we can find a secure spot out here, maybe we should hole up and tackle the citadel when we have some reliable light. Helmet lights can only do so much.”

Above them, thunder growls, one long, bone-shaking rumble that goes on for far too long. Anakin gives the sky an unhappy glare, then folds his arms over his chest and glances at Mace. “Master, what do you think?”

Mace considers for a moment, then closes his eyes. Breathes out, the tired ache of too long on his feet fading into the background as he touches the currents of the Force. They're twisted here, tangled in unnatural ways, but—

There’s a warning. A sense of anticipation, like the fear of an animal crouched low and waiting for a predator to pass. Frowning, Mace raises his head, and asks, “Anakin, do you feel that?”

Anakin gives him a confused look, but frowns, eyes going distant. Pauses, surprise flickering across his face, and then nods grimly. “Something’s coming,” he says, and glances sideways. “Looks like the second floor of that building’s still intact. It might make a good lookout point, as long as we don’t make ourselves too obvious.”

“Sirs?” Fives asks, alarmed. “Something like more vornskrs?”

“Yes,” Mace says.

“No,” Anakin answers at the exact same moment.

Mildly perturbed, Mace raises a brow at Anakin, who pulls a definite face.

“Sorry, Master,” he says, resigned.

Mace shakes his head. “Don’t apologize for listening to your instincts,” he says. “Try to understand them, rather than dismissing them.”

As with the first time he said it, that gets him an odd look from Anakin, but he nods and closes his eyes. Exhales, long and slow, and his expression settles, eases. Mace watches him, and he can see a shadow in him, something very much like Qui-Gon. Rebellious, reckless, but—good at the heart of him. Willing to take risks to save people, and let himself be harmed so others won't. Different from the majority of Jedi, but—valuable. Necessary, even.

Someone to be cultivated, guided, helped. Anakin is still young, still learning himself, but once he finds his place, the Jedi Order will be all the better for his presence.

He could be dangerous, if he gives in to the Dark Side. But Qui-Gon believed so ardently that he was the Chosen One that Mace can't help but believe as well, at times. Doesn’t know what to think, usually, or whether or not to fear the shift that will bring a rebalancing of the Force, but—

Prophecies aside, Anakin has the makings of a great Jedi, once he learns to face himself.

“It’s not the vornskrs,” Anakin says after a moment, then pauses. “Not _just_ the vornskrs,” he corrects, and Kix mutters a curse that Mace agrees with wholeheartedly. Opening his eyes, Anakin looks at Mace, and says, “It’s…bigger. It feels like—” He breaks off, grimacing, and says, “Bigger. Meaner.”

“Yes,” Mace agrees grimly. “I thought so too.” The vornskrs are animalistic in their hunger, even with the influence of Sith alchemy on them. This hunger is far closer to a sentient power-hunger, traced through with a malice that animals don’t feel.

“Wonderful,” Cody says, resigned, and casts a look up at the building above them. “Up there?”

“I’ll scout,” Anakin says, before Mace can even open his mouth. He draws his lightsaber, then takes three long steps, jumps to the top of a broken obelisk, and flips upward, vanishing through the ruined walls. Mace frowns, casting his senses out, but he can't feel anything dangerous waiting, so he doesn’t protest.

“At least being up there will give us the high ground,” Kix says, casting a wary look at the shadows around them. “It’s weird that we haven’t seen any animal life down here, especially if this place has been abandoned for centuries. They shouldn’t know to be scared of us, right?”

“Unless there _is_ no animal life because those vornskrs ate it all,” Fives mutters.

“Likely not _just_ the vornskrs,” Mace says, and when Cody turns his head towards him, flat stare clear even through his helmet, he meets it with a raised brow. “The Sith would not have stopped with just one predator species.”

“Great,” Cody says, and glances upward. “Anything, sir?”

Leaning out beside a tree that cascades down over the side of the building, Anakin shakes his head, then leaps down, landing lightly. “Just lots of mushrooms and plants,” he says. “Kix, want a ride? Somehow I doubt the lift works.”

“I don’t think I’d be willing to trust it even if it did, sir,” Kix says dryly, but he grips Anakin's shoulder as Anakin gets an arm around him, then leaps for the building again.

In the quiet, Mace raises a brow at Cody. “Your bunker,” he offers courteously.

Cody's definitely rolling his eyes at him. “Take Fives first,” he says. “I don’t want another vornskr deciding he looks tasty.”

“Maybe they just see me as a _snack_ ,” Fives says. “Uh. Commander.”

“Remind me to never let you spend time with Boil,” Cody mutters. “Well?”

“Don’t get eaten,” Mace tells him mildly, and grabs Fives. Leaps hard, straight up from the ground, then just because he can adds a flip at the top of his arc to make Fives whoop. They drop into the ruined building with a light thump, and Mace straightens and steps back, letting Fives find his feet.

“That’s _awesome_ ,” Fives says, grinning. “It’s like you’re in zero gravity.”

“Very similar,” Mace allows, then turns and leaps back to the ground, landing beside Cody.

“You're going to tip everyone off if you keep playing favorites,” Cody accuses, though he mostly sounds amused as he slings his blaster over his back.

Mace raises a brow, unwavering. “It’s natural that Jedi form connections to those with a talent for the Force,” he says, “however latent. We are drawn to them instinctively.”

“Is that how you find your padawans?” Cody asks, thoughtful.

“Some of them,” Mace allows. “I discovered Depa on a pirate ship as an infant. Shaak Ti found one of her padawans as a child in the aftermath of a flood. Quinlan found Aayla living as a slave while on a mission with his own master. Later we all took them as our students. Sometimes the Force brings us together for reasons we cannot see at the time.”

For a moment, Cody is silent. Then, softly, he lets out an amused breath. “Think finding a clone soldier with a Force connection in the middle of a war will count?”

Mace can hear the edge in his voice, the thread of something close to bitterness. Deliberately, he reaches out, catching Cody's hand, and curls his fingers around his armored forearm. Grips, just for a moment, and meets his eyes through the visor of his helmet. “Yes,” he says, quiet, but with all the truth in his chest. “The Jedi are responsible for the clones, given Sifo-Dyas’s actions. Whatever of your number have the ability to touch the Force, they will be offered training, just as any sentient would be.”

Cody doesn’t respond for a long moment. “Even though you weren’t going to train Anakin?” he asks.

“We refused Anakin, at first,” Mace admits, unflinching. “And now Anakin is one of the most promising Jedi, for all his hotheadedness. Perhaps it is time the Jedi Order considers who we accept with less of an eye for tradition and more consideration placed on need.”

“Well,” Cody says after a moment. “Seeing as it looks like you're volunteering to take on Fives, you're giving yourself the biggest headache of all, so you’d know best.”

Mace can't help a faint smile. “Tell me, Cody,” he says, and lets go of Cody's arm. “Have you ever met Depa Billaba?”

Cody blinks. “No,” he admits. “I don’t think I've ever spoken to her commander, either. The 212th is usually stationed at the opposite end of the galaxy.”

Mace glances up to where voices are rising, Fives's clear and unmistakable. “I believe Fives and Depa will get along quite well,” he says.

“Really,” Cody says, disbelieving. “Your padawan was like _Fives_?”

“Similar,” Mace allows. “Very…energetic. And far too clever for my own good.”

There's a pause as Cody picks through the implications. “Well,” he says finally. “At least you know what you're in for, then.”

Mace doesn’t confirm or deny; all padawans are different, and training Depa, temple-raised, will be an entirely different matter than training a soldier with no experience beyond the GAR like Fives, he’s sure. “Are you ready?” he asks instead, offering a hand, and Cody sighs and takes it, stepping close to hook an arm over Mace's shoulders.

“No flips, if I can make a request,” he says.

“Of course,” Mace says, mildly amused that Cody would think he’d do the same to him as to Fives. “I assumed you’d be less enthusiastic about acrobatics.”

“Much less,” Cody agrees, and braces himself as Mace leaps. It’s straight to the second story, where the building is more hole than wall, spilling plants. Moss cushions their landing, and there are enough straggling, twisted trees to make it seem like the jungle they left that afternoon.

“Over here, sir,” Kix offers, ducking out from between a tangle of branches. “There are enough trees to keep the rain off, even if it comes in through the sides of the building.”

Enough fungus to keep it lit, as well, Mace thinks, eyeing the pale blue-white growths that curl up what walls remain. With some luck, they won't be poisonous. The last thing they all need is some sort of fungal infection from sleeping near them.

“Normally I’d say we should start a fire,” Anakin says, sinking down against the wide trunk of a tree near the center of the room. “But in a place this dark, it would probably be visible for miles.”

“It’s warm enough that we can survive without,” Mace agrees, tugging his outer tunic off and laying it over a branch to dry. Anakin's is already hanging up as well, and he eyes it, then tells Fives, “If you're not cold, hang that robe up so it can dry.”

“Oh, right,” Fives says, a little sheepish, and strips it off. “If you need it back, sir—”

“I don’t,” Mace says simply. He takes the blanket Kix hands him, then passes it to Cody and says, “I’ll take first watch.”

“I’ll take second,” Anakin says, and when Kix makes a sound like he’s going to protest, he shakes his head. “A Jedi should be the one keeping an eye on things. Just in case.”

Cody pulls his helmet off, and he doesn’t look all that much happier. “You need sleep, sir,” he says. “More than you got the other night, at least.”

“We can survive on less sleep, for now,” Mace says quietly. “There are too many things in this city that could be a threat.”

Cody frowns, but nods. “We might not be Jedi, but we can watch a skyline,” he says firmly.

Mace snorts quietly. “Only an idiot would doubt that,” he says. “However, this is largely a problem we can't identify, on a planet that’s strong in the Force. It should not be something you have to deal with alone.”

“We’re not alone. That’s what you’re here for.” Cody meets his eyes, and it’s easy to see he means it. Easy to see the determination in his face, the edge of something that’s been honed down to sharpness by the war. Something that’s _good_ , steady and brave and unfaltering.

“I suppose it is,” Mace allows, quiet, and Cody's smile comes quick and crooked. It doesn’t light up his face, but it eases some of the lines there, settles some of the worry that hides in his eyes.

“Just logic, right?” he asks, and then takes the blanket to a patch of ground that’s between the gaping northern wall and the others. Between the citadel and the others, Mace notes, and feels a flicker of fondness. He doesn’t linger, but retreats to the crumbled wall and settles himself beneath a tangle of vines, crossing his legs beneath himself.

The tower looms, large on the horizon, perfectly black and gleaming in the flashes of lighting that radiate down. Unease curls along Mace's spine, a weight, a warning, but he fixes his eyes on the city beneath it and refuses to be cowed. Regardless of what they find within it tomorrow, they’ll endure.

Out in the darkness, down among the trees and shattered stones, something moves, coming closer to their camp. Mace looks, but it’s gone in a moment, vanished back into the darkness so thoroughly that he can't tell if he saw it at all.

If it comes again, he can't find it, but that doesn’t ease the disquiet that rises with the sound of the thunder and the hiss of the rain that starts to pour.

“At least wait until nightfall, Agen,” Shaak says, frowning at him. “The Kaminoans frequent most of the rooms where you would need to go.”

Agen frowns deeply, displeased, but he folds his arms over his chest rather than making for the door, so that’s at least something of a win. “There will be more guards at night,” he counters.

“But fewer eyes in general,” Shaak points out, and offers him a smile. “Please, Agen, I don’t want you putting yourself in danger.”

Agen looks away pointedly and doesn’t answer.

Crushing a thread of impatience, Shaak inclines her head to him. “Thank you,” she says with dignity, and feels the presence of a body approaching her quarters. Relieved to leave the polite discussion over Agen’s mission and the speed required of it, she lets out a breath and turns to get the door, opening it just as Colt reaches for the chime.

“Commander,” Shaak says warmly. “Good morning.”

Colt eyes her, then the chime, and pauses. “Good morning, General,” he says finally, and inclines his head to Agen. “General Kolar.”

“You're Commander Colt?” Agen asks. “The one staying with Master Ti?”

“Yes, sir.” Colt looks from Agen to Shaak, clearly feeling the tension between them, and Shaak smiles ruefully and beckons him inside.

When the door is safely closed, she folds her hands in front of her and asks, “Colt, do you know if there are guards kept on the record rooms and Nala Se’s office at night?”

Carefully, Colt pulls his helmet off, and he’s frowning. “Not Nala Se’s office,” he says after a moment. “But shinies get guard duty outside the cloning rooms, and the records are there, I'm pretty sure. Lots of Kaminoans there during the day, though. And bots, too.”

“I can get past clone troopers,” Agen says dismissively, and when Shaak gives him a reproving look he just frowns at her. “If I can get past Hutts, I can get past clones, Shaak.”

“I'm not doubting your abilities, Agen,” Shaak says soothingly. “But please, be gentle when you do.”

Colt makes a sound of quiet amusement. “No offense, sir, but shinies on guard duty can stand to be knocked around a little. It’ll teach them them keep their eyes open better.” He studies Agen for a moment, then asks, “Sorry, sir, but you're not going to hide the break-in?”

The curl of Agen’s smile is sharp. “I’ll make it look like Ventress,” he says. “I felt something, went looking, and caught her, then chased her off.”

Raising a brow, Colt looks from Agen to Shaak. “You're just going to lie to the Kaminoans?” he asks, though he sounds more bemused than judgmental. “I didn’t think Jedi did that kind of thing.”

Shaak hides her smile, exchanging looks with Agen. “It is not the way of the Jedi to undercut an ally,” she allows. “However, Jedi also have long experience with tense negotiations, and the maneuvering required to come to a satisfactory agreement.”

“Maneuvering,” Colt repeats skeptically.

Agen snorts. “I maneuver my way behind locked doors,” he says in explanation. “With a lightsaber.”

Shaak closes her eyes, rather than roll them. It’s not because Agen is a Zabrak that he’s like this; Eeth Koth is perfectly reserved and diplomatic, after all. This is just how Agen is. “It will be fine,” she says firmly. “Agen, would you like to rest, or accompany me to see the tests that are scheduled?”

With a frown, Agen considers for a moment, then says, “Tests.”

Shaak was afraid of that. Strangling a sigh, she tells herself that it’s better than Agen deciding to break into the cloning chambers in broad daylight and inclines her head. “Very well. Commander?”

Colt looks amused, but he opens the door for them. “Ready when you are, generals.” He waits for them to pass, then falls in beside Shaak, and says, “If you wanted, General Kolar, you could always look in on the training. El-Les has the newest batch of shinies doing hand-to-hand this morning.”

Agen looks _much_ more enthused about that idea. “El-Les?” he asks.

“An Acrona bounty hunter and mercenary,” Shaak says. “Jango Fett handpicked him. He usually oversees the final stages of training, but one of the other instructors was injured during a drill.” She smiles, perfectly innocent. “I'm sure he wouldn’t refuse the help, if you were to offer.”

“Hm.” Agen eyes the corridor ahead of them, then looks at Colt. “You're staying?”

“I won't leave General Ti’s side,” Colt confirms. “Rancor Battalion’s stationed here, now that Grievous is on the move, and Blitz and Havoc have command of the troops. They know I'm guarding the general.”

“There were assassination attempts, I'm afraid,” Shaak says, which is another lie that Agen will read. He inclines his head, clearly accepting their planned excuse, and then turns off without another word, taking a path towards the center of the training areas. Shaak watches him go, fondly amused, and shakes her head.

“The troopers seemed all right?” she asks Colt instead of commenting, however.

“Yes, sir.” Colt pauses, waiting for a scientist to pass them, and then says more quietly, “Droids were discussing something when I looked in. Didn’t tell me, though, and I figured I’d wait until you were with me to press.”

Shaak inclines her head, spares one more glance after Agen, and then turns in the opposite direction. The lift is standing empty, and she leads the way inside, watching as it starts to sink without a sound.

“I do wonder,” she says quietly, “why I had such a strong reaction to Tup, of all the clones I’ve touched.”

Colt casts her a sideways look, frowning faintly. “You saw something?” he asks. “Not just a feeling?”

“He’s going to kill a Jedi,” Shaak says sadly. “I felt her die, betrayed and bewildered. And Tup…” She pauses, and then repeats softly, “He kept saying _good soldiers always follow orders_.”

Colt is stiff, frozen beside her. “General,” he says, a warning in his voice. “I know you don’t want the Kaminoans decommissioning clones, but if he’s a Jedi killer—”

Shaak shakes her head. “He’s done nothing yet. I can still save him, Commander.”

“What if the Jedi he kills is _you_?” Colt asks harshly. “Sir, I know you want to help us—”

Shaak reaches out, folding her hand over his. “Commander,” she says gently. “I would not be a Jedi if I gave up so soon, before I had tried. Even if I am the one he kills, I would try to save him first.”

For a long moment, Colt stares at her, mouth twisted, something between anger and frustration bubbling under his skin. “Yes, sir,” he finally allows. “But don’t ask me to leave you alone with him.”

Shaak can accept that compromise. “Of course, Colt,” she says gently. “I have been a Jedi for many years. He could not kill me easily, even if he tried.”

“I don’t want him to _try_ ,” Colt says darkly, but he presses his free hand over the back of hers and then pulls away as the lift comes to a stop. “You're impressive, General, but that’s why traitors are so dangerous; no one expects them, even when they _know_ they're around.”

Shaak doesn’t tell him that she meant _he could not kill me_ far more practically. Her spatial awareness is good even for a Togruta of her age; for twenty meters in every direction, she knows precisely how people are moving, where they are. Even if Tup were to lose himself, she would feel it before he could harm her.

“It will be fine, Colt,” she says gently, and heads for the medical bay without waiting for his next protest.

The privacy light is on, glowing red, but the doors open when she inputs her code, and she steps into a swift flow of activity, droids passing quickly. They're beeping at each other, with a tone like surprise or concern, and Shaak frowns. She can't sense anything from them, and the clones are all sedated, sleeping quietly, but—

Something’s happened, and unease sits like a weight against her spine.

“General Ti,” a voice says, and Shaak turns to greet the droid she spoke to the other day as it buzzes closer. “Thank you for coming.”

“Of course,” Shaak returns, bowing to it. “Thank you for accommodating my request. You found something?”

The droid cocks its head at her. “Yes, General,” it confirms, and doesn’t ask how she knows. “During deep brain scans, we encountered an anomaly. Each member of the squad has an organic chip implanted in their brains. However, this chip is not featured on any current schematics of clone biology, and its presence is a mystery.”

Colt’s indrawn breath is harsh, and Shaak feels the words ripple through her, a burning, glass-edged cut that sings through the Force with intent and importance.

 _This_ , she thinks, and folds her hands into her sleeves to keep the tremble in them from being obvious. _This is vital._

“Can they be removed safely?” she asks, carefully picking her words. “Or are they tied the body’s function?”

The droid buzzes quietly in frustration. “We cannot tell, General. As of now, we do not even know how they were implanted, or when.”

Shaak closes her eyes for a long moment, breathing through the worry that curls around her lungs. Thinks of Agen, planning his break-in, and records, and clones in development. “The whole squad has them?” she asks. If she sends this droid with him, maybe—

“Yes, General.” The droid cocks its head. “I calculate there is a high probability that all current clones have them.”

“Check me,” Colt says, and Shaak opens her eyes, giving him a startled look. Grimly, he nods to her, and says to the droid, “I’m from one of the first batches. If you don’t find it in me, you’ll know it’s not related to keeping us clones alive, right?”

“It would be valuable data, yes,” the droid agrees. “This way, Commander.”

“Colt,” Shaak says softly.

Colt just tips his chin up. “It’s the best way, sir. Won't take long, right?”

“Correct,” the droid confirms. “It is a Level 5 brain scan, but non-invasive. You will have to be sedated during the process, however.”

“That’s fine.” Colt hesitates, then offers his helmet to Shaak. “If you don’t mind, sir?”

Shaak knows precisely what such a gesture means. Carefully, deftly, she takes the helmet from him, fitting her fingers over the streaks of grey on the cheeks. She cradles it for a moment, and even though she isn't Quinlan, even though psychometry isn't one of her gifts, she’s almost certain she can feel the imprint of his thoughts on the plastoid, the edge of fear and the sheer, stubborn determination that overwhelms it.

“I will guard it with my life,” she says, gentle.

Colt’s expression twists. “Please don’t, sir,” he says, aggrieved, and Shaak laughs softly. Shifting the helmet to the curve of her arm, she leans up, cupping his cheek in one hand, and touches their foreheads together for just a moment.

“I will guard it,” she says, and means _I will guard you_.

Colt’s breath is low, rough, grateful. “I know, sir,” he returns, and pulls back, following the droid into another room.

Left alone among sleeping clones, Shaak breathes in, breathes out. Grips Colt’s helmet, and can't shake the memory of Mace's absolute certainty that she should keep only Colt or one of his batchmates around her.

Colt won't have a chip. She already knows it. But that leaves the question of what the chips are for, and why the younger clones have them. No one but the Kaminoans could have implanted them, but—for what reason?

Tup is going to kill a Jedi, she thinks. There's something wrong with Tup, and he has a chip in his head, and he’s going to lose himself. There’s something _wrong_.

They need to get Tup’s chip out. Before anything else, they need to have it removed, because otherwise she doesn’t know what will happen to him, but there won't be any returning from it.


	17. Chapter 17

“General?” Wolffe asks, wholly suspicious.

Tilting his head, Plo waves him in without looking up. “Come in, come in,” he says. “Mace won't mind.”

Wolffe’s sigh is aggrieved, but he does as Plo suggests, stepping into Mace's quarters with a reluctance that makes Plo smile. Even Wolffe, one of the bravest men he knows, doesn’t want to risk upsetting Mace Windu. It’s always entertaining, especially because Mace is entirely bark with very little bite behind it. Well. Unless one counts Vaapad or his shatterpoint ability.

Perhaps there’s a bit of bite there, but only for his enemies. And he likes Wolffe. Plo is absolutely sure of that, at least.

“What are you even doing in here?” Wolffe asks, wary. “Sinker said you never turned up this morning.”

“Morning?” Plo blinks, then glances at the clock. It’s about seven hours later than it was the last time he looked, and he pauses. “Ah, my mistake, Wolffe. I got caught up in my work.”

Wolffe’s grunt says he is both unimpressed and unsurprised. “Work on the marriage sham?” he asks.

Plo smiles behind his rebreather. “Of course. Mace had the papers filed and sent me a copy, and I was planning how best to distribute them.” Namely, how best to get them to Quinlan, who is supposed to be on one of the lower levels of Coruscant in a few hours. Plo, however, is fairly recognizable, and if he ruins Quinlan’s cover, quite a lot will have been for naught. He’d thought perhaps one of Adi’s contacts, but she’s currently on deployment and he doesn’t want to risk such sensitive information to a comm.

Wolffe raises a brow at him, leaning over to check what he has so far. “Three pads? That’s a lot of info to hand out to a journalist.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want to make it too easy for them,” Plo says serenely, and clicks his claw-covers together. Considers how subtly he can raid the quartermaster’s stores for undercover clothes, and whether he can pass as a trader or a spice runner well enough to at least hand the information on to Quinlan. If he remembers correctly, there’s even some old Mandalorian armor in store that would fit someone of a clone’s size and stature. Perhaps a spice trader and a bodyguard.

That would work, assuming no one looks too closely. And on Coruscant’s lowest levels, no one does.

“Were you coming to check up on me?” he asks Wolffe. “Or was there something pressing?”

“You didn’t show up at the barracks,” Wolffe reminds him, but it’s not nearly as sharp as it could be, closer to tolerant. “I wanted to make sure you hadn’t tripped in the Archives and broken your neck.”

Plo chuckles. “Really, one would think I was a helpless padawan for how you worry,” he says, touching the tips of blunted claws to Wolffe’s arm fondly. “Would you care to come with me on an errand, Wolffe?”

Wolffe gives him a look that’s _deeply_ unimpressed. “What kind of errand, sir?”

With a hum, Plo collects his datapads and then rises to his feet. “Meeting Master Vos, of course,” he says easily.

“ _General_.” Wolffe bristles, takes a step like he’s trying to put himself between Plo and the door. “If that traitor is on Coruscant, you should alert Commander Fox—”

“I should do no such thing,” Plo says calmly. “Quinlan is going to be the one to deliver news of Mace's marriage to Count Dooku, in order to weaken the Republic with a Jedi scandal.”

There's a long, long pause as Wolffe stares at him narrowly. Then, deliberately not moving, he folds his arms across his chest. “And why would he do that, sir?”

“Because I'm going to ask him to,” Plo says serenely, and Wolffe closes his eyes like he’s praying desperately for patience.

“Sir,” he says, with a tone that says he’s clinging to composure by his fingernails. “If you get yourself declared a traitor to the Republic, the Wolfpack’s going to have to break you out of prison. Please don’t make us do that, General.”

Plo reaches up to pat his shoulder gently. “I would break myself out before you could,” he assures Wolffe, who looks decidedly un-assured.

“This is a terrible plan, sir.”

“It’s a splendid plan. Mace and I came up with it together.” Plo finds his comm beneath a pile of flimsiplast notes, then sends a brief message to the quartermaster. They’ll send a padawan with the required items as soon as they can collect them; everyone working there is well-used to Jedi getting last-minute assignments, and Plo's request won't even raise an eyebrow.

“To use a _traitor_ to free the clones?” Wolffe asks, judgmental. “Vos hates clones. Who’s to say he’ll even care enough to take the information?”

“To use a spy to pass on valuable information to the enemy, in the hopes he’ll spread it.” Plo studies Wolffe for a moment, and then says, “I trust you can keep this information to yourself, Wolffe. Quinlan’s safety depends on it.”

Wolffe’s expression twists, and he sighs. Mutters something, out of which Plo only catches an exasperated _kriffing Jetii_ , but it makes him chuckle regardless.

“I could be going on my own,” he points out, and Wolffe winces.

“You would have if I hadn’t shown up,” he accuses, but—

“No, Wolffe,” Plo says gently. “I value your opinion greatly, and I would far rather maintain my standing in your good graces than risk myself needlessly.”

Wolffe stares at him for a very long moment, frowning faintly like he doesn’t know how to react. Then, gruff, he says, “Thank you, sir,” and deliberately looks away.

Plo chuckles, always amused by Wolffe’s reticence, and obligingly changes the subject. “I do hope Mace and Commander Cody are getting along. They are both very strong personalities, and I worry sometimes. There will likely be a steep learning curve in regards to their marriage.”

Wolffe rolls his eyes. “I'm sure they’ll be fine, General,” he says, clearly uninterested, and then pauses. “Are you all right, sir?” he asks after a moment. “You and General Windu were…close.”

A little surprised, Plo tips his head. “Ah,” he says, a beat behind. “The rumors, you mean? Our torrid affair, stretching back to our days as padawans together, forbidden by all but pursued despite our duties and our better sense? Of course, as expected, I am thoroughly heartbroken and adrift, with no recourse—”

“Sir,” Wolffe says on a sigh, and closes his eyes like he’s in pain.

Plo chuckles, shaking his head. “Mace is a dear friend,” he says. “We share similar thoughts on the Order’s philosophy, with just enough differences to make it interesting. That is the extent of it.”

“You should tell the gossips that,” Wolffe says, but the dead-straight line of his shoulders has eased into something more natural. “I think the whole GAR believes it.”

Plo waves a careless hand. “It keeps them entertained,” he says, eyes crinkling. “And potentially, Mace and I have bets running as to how long it will take the rest of the council to stage an intervention. So far, only Ki-Adi-Mundi has expressed concern, but we were holding out for Eeth and Adi to take up the issue.”

Wolffe stares at him, perfectly flat. “Of course you were,” he says, and rubs the bridge of his nose. Breathes in, out, and then asks, slightly muffled, “Vos is on Coruscant right now?”

“He’ll be landing soon,” Plo corrects. “There’s a bar in one of the lower sectors that his informants like to frequent. If we’re present and not looking like ourselves, it should be quite simple for him to approach us.”

Wolffe looks _thoroughly_ displeased by this plan, but he sighs. “I don’t suppose you’d let me bring Boost or Sinker?”

“Three is a crowd,” Plo reminds him serenely, and Wolffe groans. When the chime sounds, though, he goes to collect their disguises without further comment, and Plo is willing to call that a victory.

Besides. Wolffe looks quite dashing in full Mandalorian armor, and he seems to enjoy it, too. Plo is always willing to indulge his commander in anything that makes him happy, and this method is simple enough.

There's something out in the darkness.

Mace sees the flicker of motion, passing through a dull-dim pool of light, and feels the tension pull taut along his spine. Too clear to be his imagination, he thinks, scanning the overgrown streets carefully. Not a trick of the mind, and not a trick of the lightning-filled sky. Actual movement, approaching their camp but still a fair distance away, and he comes to his feet in a moment, one hand on the hilt of his lightsaber.

There's no motion from behind him, no stir in the others as they sleep. Even Anakin seems startlingly peaceful, curled beneath an emergency blanket and perfectly still. He doesn’t twitch, and Mace frowns, turning his gaze back to the ruined city.

Barely three blocks from them, something crosses a patch of glowing fungus, shadow distorting wildly across the ruins of a building, and Mace feels a familiar sharp-edged urge. _Fight_ , it says, _defend_ , and he pushes it down, breathes through it until he’s in control of his harder impulses. He knows his own weakness well, and he won't let it rule him.

There are still several hours of his watch left, and Mace weighs waking Anakin early against the clear presence of something below them. Doesn’t want to alarm anyone, doesn’t want to rob them of sleep in case it’s simply an animal, but—

He can feel the danger tight against his skin, a weight like the humid air but sporting _teeth_. There's no way the thing below isn't a danger.

Rising to his feet, he crosses back into the quiet tangle of trees, crouching down beside Cody. Places a hand on his shoulder, and that’s all that’s required to have Cody's eyes opening, to have him rolling upright and reaching for his blaster. “Mace?” he asks roughly, and Mace nods towards the window, grim and silent. Voices will carry, and he doesn’t want to alert what’s coming.

Eyes narrowing, Cody nods sharply, then rises to his feet, heading for the window with quick, silent steps. He tucks himself against the edge of the trees there, scanning the darkness, and Mace leaves him to it, moving on to Kix. Kix comes awake with the same speed, perfectly silent as he rolls upright without question. Fives, too, wakes easily, apparently from restless dreams, and his sharp breath is the only sound. When he sees Mace, he closes his eyes for a moment, nods, and gets up, pulling the drying robe on over his remaining armor.

“Sir?” Kix murmurs, almost soundless.

“Movement,” Mace says, equally soft, and shakes Anakin lightly. There’s a jerk, a sharp breath, and Anakin twists upright with wide eyes, something grim and startled on his face.

Dreams, Mace thinks grimly, remembering Anakin's nightmares back on the cruiser. Running through somewhere hot and dark. What are the odds that it _wasn’t_ this planet he was dreaming of?

“You feel it,” he says quietly.

Anakin nods, rubbing a hand over his face. “We need to face it,” he says. “I—there’s something out there.”

“I’ll go,” Mace says, and rises to his feet. “Stay with the troopers.”

“What?” Anakin's eyes snap open. “I'm not going to _stay here_ —”

“Yes,” Mace says flatly, in no mood to argue about this. “You will. Showing our full hand is foolish.”

“If they're vornskrs again—”

“I’ll lead them away,” Mace finishes for him. He turns—

And comes face to face with Cody, who's planted in his path like a cruiser wouldn’t move him.

“I'm going with you,” he says, unwavering. “You should have _some_ backup, even if it’s not another Jedi.”

Mace frowns at him, but he can feel that Cody isn't going to bend. “All right,” he says, and glances back at Anakin. “If we don’t return in an hour’s time, make for the citadel as soon as it’s light.”

“Master,” Anakin protests. “I can help. Whatever’s down there is dangerous.”

“Yes,” Mace agrees. “But not hostile.”

Anakin pauses, taken aback, and frowns as he concentrates on the Force. A moment later, he catches what Mace is feeling, and his head jerks up. “That’s—”

“I believe so,” Mace confirms. “If the trap is for you—”

“They might not be expecting _you_.” Anakin glances towards the citadel, then nods curtly. “If you need us, comm me.”

“I will.” Mace touches his shoulder in passing, heading for the side of the building, and glances at Cody. Raises a brow, asking a silent question, and Cody nods, pulling his helmet on and hooking an arm over Mace's shoulders. Mace grips his hip, then jumps, and lands them lightly behind the cover of a tangle of trees.

Somewhere ahead of them, in the darkness, a bird cries a high warning that echoes through the city and then falls silent.

“Great,” Cody mutters, and glances at Mace. With a grimace of his own, Mace tilts his head towards a narrow path through the rubble, tracing the last flicker of movement he saw. Cody follows close behind him, steps carefully silent. The white-and-yellow armor is too visible for Mace's comfort, makes him a target in the darkness, but there's little to be done about it now. And—

Ahead of them, something rounds a corner, just a flash of too-long shadow sweeping across the ground to mark its passage.

Cody twitches behind Mace, blaster up and braced against his shoulder in a moment. He pauses, scanning the area, and Mace catches his attention with a flick of one hand, signals for him to go left instead of right, up to the top of a pile of stones completely covered by trees and tangled roots. It’s a perfect sniper’s perch, and Cody nods grimly, then climbs up it quickly, disappearing from sight.

Alone, Mace breathes, eyes on the stretch of open ground where there an old square must have been. If he looks carefully, he can still see an edge of that long shadow, lurking along a wall. Looming, too dark against the soft light of the fungus, too stark against the surrounding blackness.

Thunder growls, long and low, and a wave of lightning washes across the sky from one end to the other, casting crooked shapes across the ground.

Steeling himself, Mace drawls his lightsaber, then steps out of the shadows. Makes himself obvious, unmistakable, as he leaves the cover of the ruins and emerges into the square, sidestepping the cracked, moss-eaten statue that’s half-buried in the bog. Glances around, looking for the prowling form that has to be close—

And stops dead, prepared but still entirely unready for the sight of the man standing there.

Slowly, slyly, with an expression Mace has seen far too many times when mischief was involved, Qui-Gon Jinn smiles at him, the perfect image of the man they consigned to the flames on Naboo. Not the blue glow of a Force ghost, but real, solid, full of color. There’s humor in his eyes, a smile on his lips, and he steps towards Mace without pause, tall and dignified and as steady a man as Mace could ever hope to know.

“My old friend,” he says, light, like he’s played a trick on Mace and pulled it off beautifully. “You don’t seem as happy to see me as I’d hoped.”

It takes a long, long moment for Mace to be able to find his words. “Qui-Gon,” he says, and it comes out rougher than he intends, harsher. Ragged, almost, but—Mace can feel that same ragged edge stripping his soul. “This isn't a talent I knew you possessed.”

Qui-Gon’s mouth curves. “As though I could overlook the chance to continue to grey your hair, even after my death,” he says.

It’s fond. It’s an old joke, well-worn between them, and Mace wants to close his eyes against the blow of it, but he doesn’t dare.

“I don’t have any hair to grey,” he counters, and Qui-Gon frowns like he’s displeased by the break from the usual pattern.

“None at all?” he asks instead of his usual retort to Mace's standard denial. “Should I check?”

Mace refuses to waver. “You approached Anakin,” he says. “Why?”

Qui-Gon frowns at him, the edge of petulance that Mace remembers so well, usually unbecoming in a grown man but charming in someone like Qui-Gon, forever picking up helpless lifeforms and too kind and too damaged in turns. “I'm the one who found the boy, Mace,” he says. “I simply wanted to see how he’s grown.” A small smile takes over the pout, and he says, “Obi-Wan did well with him.”

“He did,” Mace allows, willing to admit that. “But I'm still surprised you would ask him for help, Qui-Gon. That’s not like you.”

For a moment, Qui-Gon is silent. Then, softly, he sighs, folding his arms across his chest. “I _ache_ , Mace,” he says quietly. “This world twists my soul like a slow torture, and if I don’t escape it, I fear what I may become.”

“I hadn’t thought anyone could trap a Force ghost,” Mace says, even though something in his chest feels hollow, empty. Qui-Gon, killed by a Sith, and now trapped on a Sith planet—there’s a terrible symmetry to it, even if Mace knows distantly, darkly, that he shouldn’t believe.

“There are things that have been forgotten for centuries,” Qui-Gon says, and reaches for him. “Things that should have stayed forgotten Mace. Force, how I wish they would have.”

It’s the same hand Mace remembers, big and long-fingered and callused, scattered with scars and bite marks from where his pathetic lifeforms were unappreciative of their rescue, or where a Jedi's life left its mark on his skin. He regards it for a long moment, then lifts his gaze to Qui-Gon’s, and says, “Old things have a way of coming back to haunt us.”

Something flickers in Qui-Gon’s gaze, just a shadow passing across the familiar blue. “Do I haunt you, my friend?” he asks, almost gently.

“Hardly you alone,” Mace says coolly. “Don’t give yourself airs, Master Jinn.”

Qui-Gon laughs at that, warm, everything Mace remembers in his expression for just a moment. “I would never presume, Master Windu,” he returns, amused, and then pauses, sobers. Takes a breath, and says, quiet, desperate, “Mace, you must find me. I can't remain here. Every day it changes me more.”

Sentiment, Mace thinks, and severs the threads of it ruthlessly. “If you are Qui-Gon Jinn, you know precisely why I can't,” he says evenly.

Silence. Heavy and still, stretching between them. Then, quietly, Qui-Gon takes a breath, and says, “Perhaps you should explain it to me.”

Only Qui-Gon would understand so well how to drive the knife in, Mace thinks, and won't allow it to be bitter. “We stand in the middle of a Sith planet, within the Stygian Caldera,” he says, perfectly uninflected. “You died on Naboo a decade ago, Qui-Gon. Even you have to admit it's suspicious. If you were in my place, would you drop everything to help under those circumstances?”

“Yes,” Qui-Gon says, soft, sorrowful. “My old friend, I would save you in a heartbeat.”

Mace can't help it. He closes his eyes, feeling the impact of those words, unable to let them simply slide off. “Then perhaps,” he says, “you are the better man, Qui-Gon.”

“Perhaps I always was, Mace.”

The hum of a lightsaber igniting is just half an instant too quick for Mace to react.

He’s moving before his eyes even open, but the burn of plasma just skims his head, reverses, and Qui-Gon was always too fluid, too unpredictable, a master swordsman. Mace's hand goes to his lightsaber, and a thought ignites it—

The report of a blaster rifle cracks through the humid air, and Qui-Gon cries out, thrown backwards. Mace twists to his feet, feeling the burn of adrenaline transposed to eagerness, and brings his blade up in time to block the next blow—

But there isn't one. Qui-Gon has vanished, and the only mark that he was ever present at all is a splatter of blood on the grass that’s fading before Mace's eyes.

Somewhere in the distance, a familiar howl rises.

“Mace!” With a thud of boots, Cody drops from cover and approaches at a run, helmet turning to scan the area. “What happened?”

“He disappeared,” Mace says, and doesn’t allow himself to waver. “But he was here long enough to lead something else right to us.” He lifts his comm, but when he tries to activate it, all he gets is silence.

Grimly, Cody makes the same attempt, to the same result, then eyes the direction the howl came from. “That’s back towards camp.”

Vornskrs, Mace is sure. “They won't chase you,” he tells Cody. “If you return—”

“No,” Cody says simply. “You can't take them all alone, and if they ignore me, that’s an advantage.”

“They won't ignore you entirely,” Mace says. “Not if you're shooting at them.” Cody doesn’t budge, though, and he lets out a breath, then inclines his head once. “If we can lead them away from the main path to the citadel, Anakin will have less trouble making it there in the morning.”

“We meet him there, then,” Cody agrees, and tips his helmet. “West?”

But Mace's eyes catch on a light in the sky before he can answer, and he goes still, letting his lightsaber hiss off. Instantly, Cody turns as well, and takes a sharp step back.

Low, quiet, engines humming, a _Consular_ -class cruiser sinks through the heavy clouds, gleaming an eerie red in the darkness. It’s absolutely clear, undeniably real; Mace can see lightning shatter off its hull, leaving scorch marks on the paint.

“Heck,” Cody breathes. “That’s—”

“A Coruscanti diplomatic ship,” Mace says, quietly, grimly. “On a Sith planet, very far from anywhere it should be.” Not a rescue, he thinks, an instinct that can only come from the Force; it doesn’t try to pause, doesn’t scan the ground for signs of their group, and there’s no reaction from Mace's comm. When he checks for new channels, one registers, but he doesn’t try it, and no one tries to reach him.

And when he looks, careful, the darkness around it is even deeper than the darkness in the tower, and twice as vicious.

The cruiser circles the citadel, and several moments later the hum of engines ceases. Thunder cracks across the sky, and lightning follows. A vornskr howls, high and hungry.

“I think,” Mace says, “we just found our way off this planet.”

Cody shoots him an incredulous look. “Whoever that is has no problem flying a Republic ship to a _Sith planet_ ,” he says. “It’s either looking for us, or it’s here for some other reason entirely, and one that’s probably not good. _And_ it appeared right after someone you knew tried to take your head off.”

Mace looks, again, at the symbol glowing on the front of the citadel. The mark of the emperor in residence, he thinks, and tightens his grip on his lightsaber.

They’ve known for a while that the Sith Lord is on Coruscant. If this is the Sith Master, if this is the mastermind behind the war—

“We need to warn Anakin,” he says. “If he assumes it’s a rescue—”

Cody's grimace is clear in his voice. “Hang on. If I can boost the signal enough…” He twists one of the antennas on his armor, then fiddles with his comm.

For a long moment, there’s no change, but then all at once something crackles, and half an instant later Anakin's voice comes over the channel. “Master Windu! The ship—”

“It’s someone Dark,” Mace says grimly. “Dark enough to be the Sith Lord.”

A moment of silence, and then a breath. “Yeah,” Anakin agrees, and his voice takes on the slant of a vicious grin. “It’s a nice ship, though.”

Mace smiles, just faintly. “Handy,” he agrees. “There are vornskrs that will pass you soon. Cody and I will lead them away, and meet you in the citadel. Be careful, and listen to your instincts.”

“Yes, Master.” Anakin sounds strong and clear, perfectly steady. Pauses, and then asks, “Was it…”

“Qui-Gon. Maybe.” Mace eyes the place where Qui-Gon stood. “He tried to cut my head off.”

“Qui-Gon wouldn’t,” Anakin says with unflinching faith. “Something’s controlling him, or it’s not him at all.”

It shouldn’t be a relief to hear someone else say it, and yet—

“Yes,” Mace agrees quietly. “I thought so too.”

“The Force be with you, Master,” Anakin says. “We’ll see you soon.”

“Don’t use the Force until we’ve led the vornskrs past,” Mace says, and nods to Cody, who closes the channel.

There's a moment of silence, and then Cody takes a breath. “Well,” he says, wry. “Quite the honeymoon.”

“Sith Lords and predators?” Mace asks, raising an amused brow. “That’s what you like?”

“Definitely not boring,” Cody says. “And to think I was worried about how long you’d take in the ‘fresher.”

“It takes me so much time to do my hair,” Mace says, perfectly flat, and Cody laughs.

“So,” he says. “How do we get their attention?”

Mace takes a breath. “With something showy,” he says, and lifts a hand. Focuses, narrow, sharp, on the point of a stone obelisk that’s been cracked off and grown over, and—

The massive block of stone shifts, shudders. It rises into the air, and far too close for comfort the howl of a vornskr pitches high and victorious.

“ _Heck_ ,” Cody says vehemently, and grabs Mace's arm, hauling him forward. The stone thunders down, and behind them something heavy hits the ground and _growls_.

They run.


	18. Chapter 18

A faint stirring in one of the beds is loud against the mechanical sounds of the room. Shaak looks automatically, turning away from the stream of results coming in as the droids compile data, and finds that Tup is the first awake, lying in bed with his eyes open, expression faintly dazed.

 _Oh_ , Shaak thinks, soft somewhere in her chest, and approaches his bed with light steps. “Cadet Tup. How are you feeling?”

Tup startles faintly, jerking up onto his elbows. “General Ti! Sorry, sir, I didn’t realize—”

Shaak shakes her head, sinking down to sit in the chair beside him and setting Colt’s helmet on her lap. “There’s nothing to be sorry for, Tup. Forgive me for startling you.” She offers him a smile, then steels herself and offers a hand as well. “You are well?”

Tup eyes her hand, then smiles faintly. “A Jedi thing?” he asks, even as he takes it.

“Yes,” Shaak says, and refuses to be overwhelmed by the flicker of something dark that rises, the sound of a blaster, Tup’s pained voice repeating a chilling mantra. No change, then. They know about the chips, but that’s not enough to change what’s coming. “It gives me a sense of you. If you are happy, or if you are scared.” Gently, she folds her hands around his, closing her eyes and bowing her head. “You're very brave, Tup.”

 _I won't let you die like that,_ she thinks.

Tup flushes, carefully pulling his hand away. “I'm—Dogma’s the brave one, he always knows what to do. I just follow him.”

Shaak chuckles. “I do not doubt that Dogma is brave as well,” she says. “But you feel fear and keep moving despite it. I consider that a very valuable form of bravery.”

Tup’s ears are red, and he looks away, gaze dropping to Colt’s helmet with something like relief. “Is that Commander Colt’s, sir?”

Shaak inclines her head, dropping her hands back to the cool plastoid and pressing her thumb against the grey markings. “It is. He is undergoing the same tests you just went through.”

“And he gave you his helmet?” Tup sounds slightly scandalized.

Hiding a laugh behind one hand, Shaak nods. “I like to think that we are friends,” she says warmly. “He is a very kind man.”

“He’s the leader of the _Rancor_ _Battalion_.” Tup looks as though he doesn’t understand how to fit _kind_ into that framework.

Shaak can feel her smile pull into something rueful, and she sighs. “What he is forced to be has no bearing on his nature,” she says gently, but firmly. “None of us are meant to be soldiers, Tup, but we have to be for now.”

“We were made to be soldiers, General,” Tup says quietly, watching her. “It’s the whole reason we were created.”

“Yes. You were created to be the soldiers in this war. And I was created to be a hunter on Shili,” Shaak tells him, smiling. “What those responsible for our creation intended has no bearing on what we decide to be, Tup.”

Before Tup can answer, a droid buzzes politely to catch Shaak's attention, then swoops closer as she turns, offering her a pad. “General. The compiled results for the squad are ready. The commander is still undergoing the brain scan, but he will be finished soon.”

“Thank you,” Shaak says politely, and takes the device. She scans the first few pages of basic data, then goes back and looks again, something itching at her. The squad seems perfectly healthy, though Tup is getting less rest than the others—a personality flaw, the droids have concluded, which makes Shaak frown. Otherwise, their results are perfectly standard, in line with every other report Shaak has seen from the Halls of Healing or—

She pauses, goes back to the front page and looks again, more slowly this time. “Pardon me,” she says, careful as she picks her words. “These are the complete tests?”

“Yes, General.” The droid eyes her, wary. “The basic tests were all well within normal limits.”

Shaak glances up, looking at Tup, who’s watching her curiously. Looks down at the pad again, which is lacking one statistic that Republic doctors’ reports rarely are. Suddenly, starkly, even beyond the terrible images she sees when she touches him, Shaak weighs her own reactions to Tup, the way she was drawn to him immediately, just because she saw him flinch.

Just because she saw him, and something called to her.

“You did not include midichlorian counts,” she says.

The droid pauses for a long moment, like she’s startled it. “No, General Ti. They are not considered standard, even for in-depth testing.”

Something as dark as suspicion settles in Shaak's chest, fills her lungs. “You are capable of running such tests, however?”

“Of course.”

“Then please do so.” Shaak hands the datapad back with a smile. “I do not wish to overlook something potentially important.”

“At once, General Ti.” The droid takes it, then swoops away, heading for the back room, and Shaak carefully breathes out, folding her hands over Colt’s helmet to ground herself.

So simple. If the Kaminoans have deliberately avoided testing clones for midichlorian counts, if they’ve been hiding that the Force can manifest in cloned soldiers, and if they’ve been implanting chips in them for an unknown purpose—

Perhaps Agen’s presence is far more important than Shaak had thought.

“Sir?” Tup asks warily.

Shaak raises her head, gives him a smile. “I’m sorry, Tup. I don’t mean to ignore you.”

“No, no, you're fine, General!” Tup says quickly, raising his hands. He sits up carefully, looking from her to the door the droid vanished through, and then asks, “Is there something wrong with us?”

Shaak considers what to say, how to answer. Wants to tell him the truth, but—they don’t know the truth, not yet. All she has are suspicions and the presence of the chips, the broken voice that whispers _good soldiers follow orders_ whenever she touches Tup’s skin.

“No,” she finally says, and smiles at him. “But I sense something in the Force, something that tells me to be cautious. That is why I asked for these tests.”

“Oh.” Tup looks relieved, and he reaches up, tugging his bun straight with absent nervousness. “It—it talks to you? The Force?”

Shaak hums, closing her eyes, and raises a hand, palm up. “The Force does not come to me as a voice. It is more like…a presence. Like light on a sunny day, all around me. I see the way it falls, and where it is strongest, and when it is disrupted by shadows.” Opening her eyes, she smiles at Tup. “There is much light here, Tup. You and your brothers are all different in the force. Each a unique light.”

Tup’s eyes are a little wide, but he smiles. “It’s only been sunny once here,” he says. “But it was beautiful. You see that all the time?”

Shaak inclines her head, dropping her hand back to the helmet. “Feel, more than see,” she says. “But yes. That is what it means to be a Jedi. To feel that, and use it to help those around you.”

“That’s…really cool,” Tup says, then flushes and practically snaps his head down.

Shaak hides her smile behind a hand. “Yes,” she agrees. “I think so as well.”

The hiss of a door sliding open catches her attention, and she turns to see the droid reentering the room. It heads straight for her, offering the datapad again, and says, “The results, General Ti.”

Shaak's hands don’t tremble as she takes it, but only because she already knows what the tests are going to say.

Still, she flips through them. Checks, carefully, each member of Tup’s squad, and—Dogma has a slightly lower count than the baseline, but the other three members are perfectly average for Humans. It’s likely enough to make Dogma rather susceptible to Force mind-tricks, which is something to train him against; if Shaak remembers correctly, commanders get that training, so perhaps if he shows aptitude in that area she can recommend he be switched to a command track. It isn't enough to affect anything otherwise, but given the nature of the enemy, precautions aren’t unwarranted.

Tup’s report is the very last, and Shaak takes one look at his midichlorian count and raises her comm.

“Master Kolar,” she says politely. “Are you available?”

On the other end, there’s a grunt, a thud, and then Agen’s voice. “Master Ti. Yes. Where?”

Bless Agen and his lack of questions. Shaak breathes out, gives him the room number, and says, “Quickly, please.”

Agen’s response is to close the connection, already moving.

Turning to the droid, Shaak smiles. “Please transfer these results to the Jedi High Council as soon as possible, marked for the Jedi Masters,” she says. “And then delete any records of them.”

The droid pauses, startled. “You authorize me to delete medical records?” it asks suspiciously.

“For the good of your patients, of course,” Shaak says easily. “I do not know it the Kaminoans would consider differing midichlorian counts aberrations, but I would prefer they not have the chance to do so, and perhaps decide the clones in question would be better…terminated.”

If they’ve been neglecting to test for midichlorians, if they’ve been covering up any clones with a Force sensitivity—well. They're in the perfect position for it, far beyond the Republic, on a hidden planet, with the Force so clouded that it’s hard to find Force-sensitives even on the Mid-Rim worlds now. No Jedi Recruiter would ever think to search Kamino for sensitives.

The droid buzzes thoughtfully. “That is reasonable,” it allows after a moment. “I will do as you request.” There’s another pause, and then it glances up. “The commander is out of testing, General Ti.”

Shaak breathes out, hooking the fingers of her free hand underneath his helmet. “Thank you. How long before he can safely be woken from his sedation?”

“We can wake him now, if you would like,” the droid says. “But it would be safest to wait ten minutes before we attempt it.”

“I can wait,” Shaak assures it. “Thank you very much.”

The droid hums an affirmative. “Commander Colt’s brain scan turned up negative,” it says. “There was no trace of a chip.”

As she feared. Shaak closes her eyes for a long moment, then nods. “I appreciate everything you have done for me,” she tells the droid. Weighs how to ask it if it’s willing to break the Kaminoans’ rules, and then asks delicately, “May I consult with you on this matter at a later time?”

“Of course, General.” The droid bobs to her, then buzzes away, and Shaak breathes out, breathes in, bows her head.

Tup is watching her, cautious, attentive.

“Tup,” she says, careful, “I would like to speak with you privately, if you would allow me to. As soon as Master Kolar gets here, and Commander Colt is awake, would you accompany me back to my quarters?”

Tup blinks, startled, but willingly nods. “Of course, sir.” He flicks a glance at the pad she’s holding, and then asks, “Is it…about my tests? Is something wrong?”

Shaak smiles at him, reaching out. Catches his hand when he reaches back, and squeezes. Lets all the warmth bubbling up inside her bleed out into her voice when she says, “No, Tup. No, this is something _wonderful_ , and I would like to make you an offer. But I don’t wish to do it where others can overhear. There is the possibility that the Kaminoans might not approve.”

“Oh.” Tup flushes faintly, looking down at their hands, and then nods quickly. “Of course. But—it’s about the test results, isn't it?”

He has good instincts. As is to be expected. “Yes,” Shaak says. “You have a high midichlorian count, higher than anyone else in your squad. It means you are eligible for special training.”

“Like—ARC trooper training?” Tup asks, startled. “ _Me_?”

Shaak chuckles. “Something similar,” she allows, and feels the rapid approach of a familiar mind in time to turn towards the main doors. They slide open, and Agen strides in, looking grim. His eyes fix on her immediately, and he crosses the room with quick steps.

“Shaak?” he asks.

Shaak shakes her head, not willing to say more than she already has in the open. “In my rooms,” she says quietly. “Commander Colt will wake shortly, and then we can leave.”

Agen frowns. “You were attacked?” he asks warily.

“No, Agen,” Shaak tells him. “I would have commed you.”

Agen huffs, folding his arms over his chest. “You had better,” he tells her, and eyes Tup. “This one?”

“Clone Cadet Tup,” Shaak says, and long practice keeps her from rolling her eyes. “Tup, this is Jedi Master Agen Kolar, who serves with me on the High Council.”

“General Kolar,” Tup says quickly, ducking his head. “It’s an honor to meet you, sir.”

Agen doesn’t answer; he’s frowning at Tup, confused more than angry. Then, deliberately, he turns that look on Shaak, brows furrowed.

“You have a piece of plastoid in your hair, Agen,” Shaak says mildly, and refuses to elaborate. The fact that Agen can feel the pull as well as she can is a relief, though, even beyond Tup’s midichlorian count.

As Agen mutters unhappily and tries to comb the pieces of shattered armor from his long, wild hair, Shaak leans forward, touching the back of Tup’s hand lightly. “I will go see about getting you released early,” she says gently. “One moment, Tup.”

“Sure, General.” Tup looks from her to Agen, slightly wary, but doesn’t protest, and Shaak rises to her feet. When Agen glances at her, she motions for him to stay where he is, tucks Colt’s helmet under one arm, and goes to find a droid. It’s a different one than the one she’s been speaking with, but it’s entirely unbothered by her request and releases Tup into her care without protest. Useful, but—

Property, Shaak thinks, her heart sore. The Republic owns the clones, so whatever she wants to do with them is permissible. The Jedi wouldn’t hurt them, in any way, but—

She breathes through it, feels movement beyond the closest door, and turns quickly, taking two steps and catching Colt as he staggers.

“Commander,” she says, and pulls his arm over her shoulders. “I'm so sorry to have you woken early, but—”

“Security reasons,” Colt says, and even if he’s still groggy his expression is set. The crooked smile he casts her is precisely the one she knows, too. “I’ll rest easier somewhere else, anyway, General. Let’s go.”

“Yes,” Shaak agrees quietly, and helps him across the floor. His steps steady quickly, but she keeps a hold on him, just to be sure he won't waver, and nods to Agen as they approach. “Agen, Tup. Are you ready?”

“Yes, sir,” Tup says quickly, and slides out of bed. He eyes Colt as he straightens, and asks warily, “Uh, General, would you like me to…?”

Shaak laughs a little. “Togruta are quite strong, Tup. I am perfectly fine supporting the commander’s weight, but thank you.”

“She’s prettier than you, too,” Colt tells him, then pauses like the words are registering belatedly and grimaces. “Sorry, sir.”

Shaak has to hide a chuckle. “Sedation can make us say many things sometimes, Commander. Agen?”

Agen inclines his head, falling in ahead of her to get the door. He walks with one hand close to his lightsaber, eyes sharp as he scans the hall outside, and he nods shortly when he sees it’s clear. “Anyone coming?” he asks her.

Shaak shakes her head; there's a Kaminoan who just passed, and may turn around, but no one else to the edge of her range. “There is a less-used lift by the storage room for cleaning supplies. Left down the next corridor, Agen.”

“Scan was negative?” Colt murmurs, almost soundless as he leans a portion of his weight on her.

“Yes,” Shaak returns, equally soft. “And there were…other developments.”

“Fantastic.” Colt glances down, to where Shaak is still carrying his helmet, and exhales. “Thanks, General.”

“Thank you for volunteering, Colt,” Shaak says softly.

Colt’s snort says what he thinks of that. “My brothers,” he says. “My duty.”

Too many duties, Shaak thinks, and curls her fingers around his. Glances ahead of them, and says, “Agen, two approaching.”

With a muttered curse, Agen hurries ahead of them, keying the lift open, and Tup ducks in first. Shaak slips in past him, maneuvering back so that the edge of the lift will hide her and Colt, and Agen enters more slowly, deliberately. He pulls himself up to his full height, the tips of his horns almost brushing the top of the door, shoulders squared until he seems twice as big as normal, and the steps that just rounded the corner come to a sharp stop.

Deliberately, Agen lets the doors close, then turns. Eyes the waiting figures as the lift rises, and when they're high enough to be safe he says, “That bounty hunter. Bric. And one of the Mandalorians.”

Not people Shaak would want to catch them, even if she could likely talk her way out of it. “Thank you, Agen,” she murmurs, and he nods, relaxing back to a more normal posture.

“How do you do that?” Tup asks, startled. “It is—a Jedi trick? Like a mind trick?”

Agen snorts. “Zabrak are mean,” he says. “I just make people think I'm extra mean.”

Shaak chuckles. “It’s posture,” she tells Tup. “Bearing and confidence, plus a touch of projection with the Force. Agen is quite skilled at it.”

“Hm.” Agen crosses his arms over his chest, and he doesn’t quite look pleased with himself, but the thought is there. “People tend to listen better when I do.”

“Yeah,” Colt says dryly. “I'm sure they do, sir.”

Shaak hides a laugh, and as the lift comes to a stop, she says, “Right, to the second hall, and then left. There’s no one coming.”

Agen still eyes the wide transparisteel windows like they’re the enemy as he emerges. “Too visible,” is his verdict.

“I’ve thought the same thing,” Shaak says wryly, though Kamino has repelled every attack thus far. The structures here are all glass and air, and even if she knows they’re structurally sound, it’s hard not to miss the stone and light of the temple, which always feels aged and steady.

Agen seems entirely displeased by it, and he keys in the code to her quarters quickly, like he can't wait to be out of sight. Shaak lets Tup pass first, then follows, steering Colt to a chair and helping him settle with careful hands.

“Would you like something to drink?” she asks, concerned. “Water, or tea?”

“Tea, if you're making it,” Agen says, closing and locking the door. He pulls a small device from his pocket and activates it, then drops it on Shaak's table. A jammer, Shaak thinks, eyeing it. Agen always comes prepared. “The tea on Nar Shaddaa is bad.”

“I’m surprised you had time for tea, in between chasing Quinlan,” Shaak says in amusement, and straightens, cocking her head at Colt in question.

“Water, please,” Colt says, and grimaces. “Feels like they stuffed my mouth with packing fluff.”

Shaak inclines her head, setting his helmet beside him. “Of course. Tup?”

Tup doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands, and finally he just folds his arms over his chest, gripping his elbows. “Me? Uh. Tea?”

“Of course.” Shaak smiles at him, touching his arm. “You’re welcome to sit if you like, Tup. We don’t mean to alarm you.”

Tup looks at her, then flicks a quick glance at Agen and Colt. Pauses, and then looks back at Shaak, meeting her eyes. “It’s just—it felt like you were sneaking, sir. And you said the Kaminoans wouldn’t approve, but—about what?”

Shaak breathes out. “I’m sorry, Tup,” she says softly. “This must be quite confusing. Please, sit. I’ll explain everything.”

Tup swallows, but sits, and Shaak can feel his eyes following her as she heats water and fetches a glass for Colt. “You said it’s about my tests, General?”

“Partially,” Shaak allows, and returns to the main room, pausing beside Colt's chair to hand him his drink. Looks at Agen, looming by the door, and sighs. “You have a high midichlorian count, Tup. So do I. So does Agen. All Jedi do. It is what gives us the ability to use the Force.”

For a long moment, Tup looks entirely uncomprehending. He stares at her, and then, slowly, his eyes widen. “ _Me_?” he demands. “I'm—”

“You have the potential to be a Jedi, yes,” Shaak says, and sinks into the chair across from him, reaching for his hands. Doesn’t flinch at the echo of blaster fire and a Jedi's death, just grips his hands comfortingly, feeling the swirl of chaotic emotions raging in him. “If you were born on a Republic world, a Jedi Recruiter likely would have found you as an infant, and seen that your parents knew you had a place at the temple. Seeing that you never had the chance, I would like to petition the council to offer you a place as a padawan learner.”

Tup doesn’t answer, still stunned speechless. Colt, however, is frowning faintly, and he asks, “Is that done? I thought padawans were all young.”

Shaak tips her head, considering. “It is very infrequent,” she allows, “that an adult would become an initiate. However, there is no age limit to being chosen as a padawan.” Pauses, because the memory of Qui-Gon before the council is all too clear, and smiles ruefully. “There have been…controversial decisions as to the acceptance of older children in the past, and many times it is a decision weighted heavily by the Force-sensitive’s personality and aptitude to be a Jedi. I believe Tup would do well, but—in the end, it is his decision.” She squeezes Tup’s hands again, then lets go, sitting back.

“Being a Jedi means sacrifice,” Agen says, quiet, and he hasn’t moved, but his gaze is fixed on Tup. When Tup glances at him, he inclines his head. “Not everyone chooses that path. We own nothing, and serve others, and follow only what the Force and our Code tells us is right.”

“But—” Tup stops, takes a breath. “But you’re free,” he says quietly. “You're like us, like clones, but—you're _free_.”

“Yes,” Shaak says quietly, and meets his gaze. “Tup, the Jedi will try their best to free you and your brothers when the war is over. And we Jedi serve the Republic just as you do. But if you decide to take this path, there is freedom at the end of it.”

“We’re in this war, too,” Agen says, grim. “We’re soldiers. So if you want to wait, and hope for after the war—”

“You want to make me a _Jedi_ ,” Tup says, choked. “I want—you're Jedi, and you want _me_ to be one too.”

His tone makes Shaak laugh, just a little, and she inclines her head. “We do, Tup. I for one think you would be a very good Jedi.”

“I want that,” Tup says, and this at least is steady. He looks at Shaak, hesitates, but forges on determinedly a moment later. “You said—it was like feeling sunlight, all the time. I want to learn to do that.”

Not the showy things. Not the powerful things. He wants to feel the light. Shaak laughs, and something settles in her chest, a wash of warm certainty that feels like dawn.

“I will teach you,” she promises, and wonders if Tup can hear the weight of the oath in those words.

She failed her last two padawans, lost them to violence right after they were Knighted, but—

Not this time. Not again. She’ll save Tup, and she’ll help him find his freedom, no matter what.

“Master?” Barriss asks quietly. “Is something wrong?”

Luminara’s fingers hesitate over the comm terminal, surprise a flicker of ice through her lungs. The transmission is directly from the medical department on Kamino, marked with Shaak Ti’s personal code, and for a moment Luminara feels a swell of fear, of trepidation. If there’s an attack, if Shaak is hurt, if she needs assistance—

Luminara can't leave her post. Wouldn’t, not ever, because her duty as a Jedi comes before all else. But just for a moment, she hopes desperately that this isn't the alert of yet another loss, another body to be consigned to the fire. She’s seen far too many friends fall since the war started.

Then, firmly, she marshals herself. Takes a breath, sets the fear aside, and releases it, accepting the moment of humanity but not willing to let it hold her trapped. “A message from Master Ti,” she says, “redirected from the temple.” It’s marked for all eleven other members of the High Council, but no one else has opened it; it’s likely the middle of the night on Coruscant, and all the rest of them are in the distracting muddle of their own missions. Luminara is the first to accept it, and she pulls it up just as a door slides open.

“General?” Gree asks. “I have the injury reports you wanted—” And then he stops, staring at the image on the comm screen. Looks from the message to Barriss to Luminara, and alarm shades his voice when he asks, “Is something wrong on Kamino, General?”

“I’m not sure,” Luminara says with a frown, and glances at the message—standard, sent by a droid on Shaak's orders, without more than her comm signature to show the message is from her. But there are files attached, and Luminara opens the first, then pauses, startled.

Clone cadet medical files. From simple tests all the way to deep brain scans that Luminara has only seen used in the worst head injuries, and—

“What is that?” Barriss asks, alarmed, and leans around Luminara to touch a section of the brain scan. It unfolds across the screen, and Barriss’s eyes widen sharply. “Master Luminara, that looks—it looks like some kind of _chip_.”

“What?” Gree manages, stepping closer. “Those are for cadets, aren’t they? Those files? Who’s putting chips in cadets?”

Luminara frowns, opening two more of the files and pulling them up for Barriss. Quickly, Barriss enlarges them, making the chips clear, and then pauses.

“They all have them,” she says quietly, and there's a thread of horror in her voice that echoes what Luminara feels. “All five members of the squad. But they’re not batchmates, so—”

“So something is at work here,” Luminara says evenly. She glances at Barriss, the healer between them, and asks, “Is there are a reason you can think of for a chip to be in that place in the brain?”

Barriss pauses, then shakes her head. “These men look perfectly healthy otherwise,” she says, skimming the rest of the files. “There shouldn’t be any reason to implant something like that. I don’t know what it is, but—that’s a dangerous spot, in Humans. If a chip degraded, it would be almost impossible to get it out without killing the patient.”

Shaak would have sent this for a reason. It has the look of a hasty transmission, something sent that looks innocuous on the surface, but Luminara is entirely familiar with Shaak. She’s fond of niceties, and even her reports to the council open with light talk and pleasantries. For her to forego them entirely, to send these files without any explanation—

The Force whispers a warning, and Luminara listens.

“Commander Gree,” she says quietly. “Do you know if the cruiser’s medbay has the capability to perform a Level Five brain scan of this nature?”

Gree is one of the cleverest people Luminara has ever worked with; his gaze snaps to her, and she can see the understanding that crosses his face, the revulsion that follows. “You—General, you think _we_ have them, too?”

Barriss is pale, and she lifts her hands to her mouth, pressing them against her lips. “I—why?” she whispers. “Who would do that?”

Shaak's most pressing concern, during her last report, was uncovering what the Kaminoans wouldn’t tell her about the cloning process. She’d gotten so tense that even Mace was eyeing her sideways by the end of the meeting, something that’s never happened before in Luminara’s memory. If she remembers correctly, Shaak even asked for permission to press the cloners.

Apparently she’s been doing more than just pressing them verbally. It’s amusing; sneaking around and slicing into files was always much more Qui-Gon’s area, not tactful, reserved Shaak's.

This war has driven them all to develop new skills, though, and Luminara is glad these seem to have borne fruit.

“Commander?” she asks, patient.

Gree grimaces, pulls himself upright. “No, sir, we don’t. But there’s a _Haven_ -class medical station near here, and given our number of wounded, I was going to recommend a detour there at the next available opportunity.”

Luminara nods. “See to it, Commander. Do you know if any other Jedi are currently there?”

Gree frowns, then rounds the other side of the table to pull up the accounting. “It looks like General Adi Gallia and her starfighter squadron are recuperating there, sir. And General Pong Krell was injured in his last fight and is being treated there.”

Luminara contains her frown at the name. It’s never fair to blame a Jedi for encountering harsh opposition, but—

Krell’s men have the highest casualty rate of any units in the GAR, and Luminara likes that very little.

“Well, having another member of the Council in residence will certainly be helpful,” is all she says, and it's true enough. Adi always has a level head. “Barriss, can you isolate the images of the chips and send them on to the other Council members, marked urgent? Make sure they know to open Shaak's message as soon as possible.”

“Yes, Master.” Barriss inclines her head, but glances up, looking to Gree and then to Luminara. “Do you think Master Ti is all right?”

Luminara breathes in, breathes out. Flips through the remaining reports, more to keep her hands moving than anything. “Shaak Ti is one of the most skilled Jedi in the Order,” she says. “We must trust in her to do what she must, and in the meantime we will do what we can to assist her. She clearly wanted the Council to have this information—”

She stops. Stops dead, staring at the accounting on the page of the very last file, simple numbers arranged in a familiar set of data.

“Master?” Barriss asks, alarmed. “Master, what’s wrong?”

“Oh, _Force_ ,” Luminara says. “No wonder Shaak was so desperate to get this information out. This clone—he’s Force-sensitive.”

Barriss’s eyes widen, and Gree stops short in the middle of issuing orders. “ _Sir_?” he asks.

A Force-sensitive clone. The first, as far as Luminara knows. But if one has appeared, what are the odds that there are no others?

Far, far lower, Luminara thinks, cold, than the odds that there _are_ others, but their existence has simply been covered up.

Or, perhaps, they no _longer_ exist, which is the most chilling idea of all. If Force-sensitive clones exist, if there is a concerted effort by the Kaminoans to conceal them or kill whatever clones display such a talent, then as Jedi it is their responsibility to rescue every last clone who is in danger. Even if that means they rescue _all_ of them.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Luminara says, perfectly composed, perfectly steady, “I need to comm the Council.” And she’ll keep comming, until every last one of them answers to hear this news.

The Kaminoans, she thinks grimly, are very quickly proving that they are not to be trusted, and after all the tales she’s heard from her troopers, Luminara is more than willing to take them at face value.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Birthday present to myself: Cody kicking ass with a Sith warblade.

Cody has officially decided this is his least favorite planet in the galaxy. By a _league_.

The vornskrs aren’t interested in him, but not in a convenient way; all they do is treat him like a mandatory detour on their way to Mace, and Cody would object to that, but he’s spent long enough dealing with Grievous and Ventress trying to break Obi-Wan’s face in particular that it’s kind of old hat.

Which means, mostly, that he throws himself in their way and tries to shoot them before they can eat him, while Mace deals with the extras.

It seemed like a better plan five minutes ago, Cody thinks, as very long, dripping teeth gnaw viciously at the body of his blaster. With a snarl, he gets a foot up against the vornskr’s belly, heaves, and throws it sideways, then rolls to his feet and aims in the same motion. Takes the shot just as movement comes from behind him, doesn’t curse even though he wants to, and dives forward to avoid the lash of a venomous tail as a second vornskr closes.

“How many?” he calls, and wishes for a vibroblade as he twists up to one knee and fires. The one that tried to grab him drops, but there are two behind it, and Cody throws himself behind the sparse cover of a tree and aims. His shot drives them sideways, but they’re quick, know exactly what the blaster means already, even if they can't have seen one before. They dodge, and Cody wants to curse.

“There were six,” Mace says, not even out of breath, and the flash of a violet blade is the only sign of movement before he drops between the creatures. They turn on him, vicious and fast, but Mace is faster; he slides beneath one, lets it slam into the other, and then twists to his feet, driving his lightsaber through both in one stroke.

Silence.

Not entirely sure he trusts it, Cody takes two careful steps to the side, scanning the ruins, but—he didn’t see the vornskrs coming the first time, and Mace shoving him out of the way was the only thing that kept him from getting eaten right off the bat. If there are any more lurking, he can't tell.

“We’re safe.” Mace deactivates his lightsaber, then clips it to his belt, surveying the paths leading out of the intersection they're in.

“For now,” Cody mutters, and Mace snorts quietly but doesn’t argue. This is the second pack they’ve had to pick off, and Cody hopes Anakin appreciates the easy road they're leaving him.

Hopes it _is_ an easy road, considering what’s at the end of it.

“We should have about nine hours of night left,” he says, checking the sky. It’s still just as dark and ominous as before, the growl of thunder never quite constant enough to be background noise. For the better, probably, even if it makes Cody twitchy; at least this way he won't dismiss something he hears, thinking it’s the weather.

“Too long,” Mace says, but he turns to scan the streets between them and the citadel, a constant looming image above their heads.

“Too long to stay out here or too long to hide if we break into the tower right now?” Cody asks wryly.

Mace's mouth curves, just enough to notice. “Yes.” He tips his head towards a street that’s mostly clear of overgrown rubble, lined with boggy grass and glowing fungus instead, and says, “This way seems best.”

Cody's willing to take his word for it; the paths all seem equally bad to him. “Best as in it has the most vornskrs, or the fewest?” Even as he says it, though, he follows Mace across the sucking ground, trying not to sink too deep in the mud, and eyes the shells of empty buildings with distrust.

“I don’t sense any around us,” Mace says after a moment, and skirts a patch of fungus that’s particularly bright. “If there’s another pack hunting, it hasn’t noticed us yet.”

And hopefully won't, Cody thinks with a grimace. He shoulders his blaster, then takes a few quick steps to fall in beside Mace now that the path is wide enough, and says, “What’s this way?”

Mace raises a brow at him, more amusement than anything, if Cody can read his face right. “It’s the path between other dangers.”

Right. Because there are more than enough of them out here to make life interesting. With a grimace, Cody sidesteps a small stream, and says, “There’s probably somewhere we can hole up out here.”

“Not in this section of the city,” Mace says grimly. When Cody casts him a sideways look, he nods at where the street opens out, becoming wide and swampy like a stalled river. On either side, the looming buildings give way to the ruins of what were once probably fancier homes, gated and walled off. “Residences,” Mace says. “If highly placed Sith lived here—”

“They probably boobytrapped the hell out of everything,” Cody finishes for him unhappily. “Great.”

“Sith are inconvenient,” Mace says dryly, though his gaze lingers on the crest set into one of the listing gates. “Even when they're dead.”

“Well-dead, hopefully,” Cody mutters, sweeping their surroundings again. The very edge of the road seems dry enough, and he takes the lead, switching the helmet lights on now that there aren’t vornskrs right on their tail. “So where exactly are we? You said you had an idea, right?”

For a long moment, Mace doesn’t answer. Then, with a quiet, almost resigned breath, he says, “The Jedi collected records the Sith left after the fall of their empire, but some things were lost. Or hidden from us. By the time the Old Republic defeated their forces, and the emperor and his council had been killed, all record of his seat of power had been erased.”

Like Kamino, Cody thinks grimly. “And this is that planet?”

“Dromund Kaas. I assume so,” Mace says, a little blander than normal. Cody’s taking that to mean the same as anyone else’s droll. “Korriban is supposed to be much drier.” He leaps a fallen pillar, half-submerged and strangled in river weeds, and lands lightly on a patch of ground that’s just big enough to stand above the water. If _Cody_ had tried something like that, he’d probably have hit a sinkhole and ended up submerged to his neck.

Like someone who _isn’t_ exempt from the laws of both gravity and probability, Cody slogs around the far end of the pillar, passing a little too close to the edge of another estate for comfort. It’s hard to tell where the fence used to be; a tree with strangling roots has overwhelmed the whole thing, leaving a handful of cracked stones and not much else. Beyond it, low and dark and sprawling, a house stands half-collapsed and gloomy, the darkness under fallen archways complete and unrelieved.

“I guess if you were going to stake out a Sith planet to play emperor on, a lost planet’s not a bad idea,” Cody mutters. Out of the corner of his eye, he thinks he catches movement across his HUD, but when he turns his head in that direction the lights don’t pick up anything. A shadow from the lightning, he decides after a moment, and breathes out, ordering himself not to be so jumpy.

Mace is silent for long enough to be alarming; when Cody glances up at him, concerned, he looks grim, and his mouth is in a flat line. Feeling the weight of Cody’s gaze, he looks over, then turns his eyes forward again and says, “Even if it’s a lost planet, that doesn’t mean it’s uninhabited. If anything, the arrival of someone would suggest otherwise.”

Right, Cody thinks, cold. That courier ship has to be here for a reason, and odds are it’s not for them. There was no search pattern back near the crash site, no attempt to comm them. Just an arrival, a landing in the citadel. Like the ship knew exactly where to set down, and how to get there. And if this _is_ a lost planet, that reduces the odds of it being a rescue by a vast amount. Cody has faith that Obi-Wan is going to be looking for them, but—space is vast, and even Obi-Wan can't know where to look without help.

“Think they’ll end up stranded here when we steal the ship?” Cody asks, trying for optimism. “That could solve a lot of problems.”

Mace snorts softly. “I certainly wouldn’t object,” he says. Turns his head, just slightly, but his eyes narrow.

Somewhere in Cody's chest, there’s a sinking sensation. “We’re being watched,” he says, and it’s not a question.

“I feel no minds around us,” Mace says, but his gaze flickers ahead of them, like he’s judging the distance to safety. And then, sharply, he comes to a full halt.

Cody has his blaster up before he can even turn his head in that direction. Nothing in the path, nothing lurking, but—

With a deep hum, a violet blade ignites, just as a crackle behind them makes Cody hiss. He spins as Mace steps between him and the sound, and for an instant all Cody can see is lightning, splitting the sky, splitting the air in a wash of dark brilliance. He recoils hard, but like it’s leaping to a grounding metal the lightning crashes against Mace's lightsaber and dies.

In the spray of fading sparks, Mace straightens, and says, “Unexpected.”

Cody can't even manage that much. Stunned speechless, he stares at the figure just raising its hand again. Not a living creature, not anything Cody has seen before, but bones and scraps of rotted flesh and mummified skin, wrapped in dark robes that do nothing to hide its strangeness. It lurches forward, like a puppet on unfamiliar strings, and lighting crackles from bony hands.

Sith lightning. Sith _zombie_. Cody kriffing hates this planet.

He dives sideways, rolls up, aims. His blast takes the zombie in the skull, shatters bone, but it doesn’t falter. It lunges at Mace, more lighting pouring from its hands, and Mace curses, ducks sideways, comes up as more power shatters past him. His blade sweeps across, is met by a flare of lightning, skims the fragments of skull as the zombie grabs—

The heel of his hand catches the remaining edge of skull, and he slams it down into the water with a crack like thunder.

When Mace rises, the zombie doesn’t.

“What was _that_ ,” Cody manages, getting his feet under him. Belatedly, he turns, scanning the area again, and can't see anything. Not that that means much, apparently.

“The guardian of a Sith's tomb,” Mace says grimly, shaking out his hand. When Cody takes a step towards him, alarmed, he gives him a sideways look but doesn’t protest Cody grabbing his hand and dragging it up to see the damage. The skin looks scorched, burned, and Cody grimaces. It would have been the hand closest to the lightning, and clearly deflecting it isn't quite as simple as blocking a blaster bolt.

“You need bacta for that,” he says, but Mace shakes his head.

“Unless you're carrying a supply, it can wait until we get back to Kix,” he says, though he doesn’t pull away. “We have other things to worry about right now.”

Cody was afraid of that. Following the line of Mace's gaze, he turns, and grimaces at the sight of swarming shadows all across the street behind them.

“They must be lost,” he says. “This doesn’t look much like a tomb to me.”

Mace snorts, but he raises his lightsaber as the first section of shadows parts, Cody's helmet lights reflecting off bare bone. “This whole planet is their tomb,” he says. “Either we stepped wrong or we’re not the ones who woke them.”

Cody strangles a groan. “Equal odds whether it was Anakin or Fives who touched something they shouldn’t have,” he mutters, and gives his blaster a glance. It’s worse than useless against people who are already dead, and he wants to curse. “Stand and fight?”

Mace hesitates, eyeing the first zombie as it stumbles closer. Then, reluctant, he shakes his head. “Deflecting lightning while ankle-deep in water isn't the best idea.”

Cody concedes that, and as the zombie raises its hand, he grabs Mace and hauls him sideways, ahead several meters and then sharply sideways, down a narrow street overgrown with tall reeds. Behind them, lightning crackles, but it can't bend around corners just yet.

“Where?” he asks Mace, because he doesn’t have instincts attached to a omnipresent universal force.

Without a word Mace turns, down the next street where it’s blocked by a fallen statue, huge even lying on its side. Cody slows, ready to take a different path, but there are sounds behind them, closing in, and he grimaces, stops—

An arm wraps around his waist, and with a hard leap Mace throws them both into the air, twisting over at the top of the arc. His lightsaber catches a flicker of diffuse lightning, but the things are too far away to be more of a threat, closing too slowly to catch them, and they land on the far side of the statue with a thump.

“Sorry,” Mace says, releasing Cody and stepping a pace away. “I know you don’t like acrobatics.”

“I like them more than getting hit with Sith lightning,” Cody says frankly, and picks up a run again, Mace right beside him. “Citadel?”

Mace grimaces. “If any members of the Dark Council died in the building, they’ll likely have been used in the same spell.”

“Spell,” Cody mutters. Sith _magic_. He hates everything about this on principle.

The curve of Mace's smile is only just visible as they push through the branches of several leaning trees. “The Jedi never could quite get rid of the Sith sorcerers fast enough.”

Cody thinks of using dead bodies like that, turning them into things that move and hunt and fight. A blaster bolt to the head didn’t even _bother_ the thing.

“Heck,” he mutters, and follows Mace around another corner. A building has crumbled across the street, but there’s a narrow gap they can push through between the stone and a fungus-covered wall, and on the other side—

A temple. Tall, squared-off, and looming, it perches at the edge of a sudden cliff like a threat, and light burns inside the windows.

Out of the darkness, hands still wrapped in mummified flesh clutch the top of the wall, and a form slithers over, landing with a thud. Then another, a third, a fourth.

Cody turns, putting his back to Mace's, and faces the forms pulling themselves forward. There are no side streets here, no ways out except through, and he swallows a curse. “I guess we’re standing and fighting after all.”

Mace is perfectly calm, perfectly composed as he turns, facing the oncoming creatures with his lightsaber at his side. “It seems we are,” he allows, and flicks a glance at Cody. Eyes his blaster for a moment, and then says, “Don’t let them break the skin.”

“What, or I’ll turn into one?” Cody mutters, meaning it as a joke, but Mace just gives him a look, very clearly serious, and he stops short. “What, _really_?”

“They leave traces of the Sith alchemy that created them in whatever wounds they make,” Mace says, and Cody blows out an aggrieved breath.

“Of course they do,” he says, disgusted. “ _Sith_.”

Lightning crackles, and Mace smiles, just faintly. “At least,” he says gravely, “after this honeymoon your expectations for the rest of our marriage will be perfectly manageable.”

“Oh, so _that_ was your plan?” Cody sees the first spark of lightning and jerks back, but Mace steps between them, catching it on his blade. “I should have thought of that first.”

It’s easy to see the effort redirecting lightning takes; Mace's eyes narrow, his mouth thins, and Cody can see the way tendrils of it curl across his hands, leap up his arms. Through it, though, he grits his teeth, and then says, “You have the equivalent of a Sith planet to strand us on? I'm impressed.”

“Sounds like you're implying something,” Cody retorts, and his shot hits one of the approaching zombies square in the chest. It staggers, falls, but a moment later it pulls itself to its feet, and Cody grimaces.

“Only that I would be impressed with your creativity if you could match zombies,” Mace says, and as the lightning dies away he flickers forward, almost too fast to see. There’s a blur of violet, and crack, and with zombie crumples, split vertically in half. Cody catches his breath, but Mace spins between two of the creatures as they grab for him, leaps over a spray of dark lightning, drops, lashes out. He’s _quick_ , and Cody's seen him fight before, saw it close-up against the vornskrs, but there’s something right now that’s more brutal, more fluid, more graceful. Not holding back, Cody thinks, and—

He’s enjoying it. He _likes_ this fight, in a way Obi-Wan rarely enjoys his encounters. There’s a ruthlessness to each blow, not vicious but _sharp_ , and Cody watches the curve of his body as he rises, the way he twists out of reach and leaps and lands, and it’s just—

Different. It’s different, different from watching Obi-Wan fight, even if Cody can't put into words _how_ it is.

His blaster won't be of any help here, and it grates, but Cody keeps to the edges of the fight, watches Mace catch lightning with one eye on their surroundings. Sees the shadows move, dancing from the scattering light, and aims at them, not ready to trust the instinct that he’s just seeing things. Looks, careful, and sees the ground shift half an instant before something _massive_ erupts right out of the earth.

With a warning shout, Cody fires. Fires again, but the thing doesn’t even pause, and Cody gets one half-second flash of a gaping mouth, spines, _teeth_ —

He almost manages to dive out of the way, but he’s half a second too slow.

The impact feels like getting hit by a speeder, even though his armor. Something sharp drives through his left arm, grating across bone, and Cody can't help a cry as he’s carried backwards by the thing’s momentum, a loud _crack_ sounding close to his ears as his blaster is caught by a vast jaw. His back hits glass, head rattling in his helmet, but it gives way with a great crash as Mace shouts. Cody gets a half-second glimpse of him turning, lightning leaping for him, Mace _falling_ —

His back hits stone somewhere dark, and the thing in his arm comes loose with a wrench that makes stars erupt behind his eyes.

There's no time for pain. Cody rolls, comes up with the butt of his shattered blaster swinging, and slams it against the mouth that grabs for him. It recoils, just for an instant, but that’s enough. Cody hurls himself behind the closest cover, ducking down behind dark stone, and it rattles under the impact of the thing. There’s a high, keening hiss, and Cody swallows a curse, looks around.

He’s in the temple, all black stone and glass and burning torches, and there’s a doorway leading deeper into the building right behind him.

The thing that caught him hisses again, and stone cracks. Cody catches half an instant’s glimpse of dark spines and massive teeth and beady eyes, a long serpentine body, sees it rear up like it’s going to strike. That’s more than enough to decide him, and he throws himself through the doorway a moment before stone gives way with a great crash. The thing hits the edge of the door, but Cody dodges left, leaps down a set of wide stairs, and hears it follow, the rasp of a huge body breaking stone as it pushes right through the doorway.

“Heck,” Cody mutters, searching desperately for cover, and finds it in a heavy black door. There's a keypad beside it, but when Cody slams a hand against it there’s a click. The door swings open with a creak, and Cody ducks through, slams it behind him.

It doesn’t lock. Of kriffing _course_.

The door slams open, right at his heels, and Cody spots the second set of stairs just in time to dodge a lunge. The thing’s head crashes into the wall, shaking the whole room, and Cody leaps around it, takes the steps four at a time and rebounds off a wall to land at the base, just far enough ahead to grab the closest torch and spin, swinging it like a weapon.

He barely has time to aim, but it’s enough. The lit torch stabs at the thing’s eye, and it recoils with a hissing scream that would break glass.

Cody doesn’t take time to savor the victory. There’s another doorway, this one vast and standing open, but it’s a direction that’s not into the thing’s mouth, so Cody takes it, bolting into the wide chamber and ducking to the side. The thing—some kind of worm, but _vast_ —plunges past him, twisting into the chamber until there are coils and coils of dark, snakelike body filling the room. It rears up, hissing, teeth dripping and mouth open wide, and Cody really, really hates every last damn thing about this planet in general and the Sith in particular.

Past the worm, along the far wall, something bright catches the light from Cody's helmet, and he takes a breath.

Good enough, he thinks grimly, and lifts the torch.

“Hey, ugly!” he calls, and the worm hisses angrily. It lunges, not the controlled strike of a snake but an attempt to crush Cody beneath its weight and force. No matter how fast it is, though, Cody's smaller, and he dives to the side, rolls up, lashes out. The torch hits dark purple skin but doesn’t go out, and Cody swings again as the worm recoils, turns, grabs for him. He leaps back, dodging the head, sees a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye and can't quite avoid the lash of the spine-tipped tail. The blow catches him across the head, and he’s thrown back, hits the ground hard as his helmet comes loose, and hauls it off as the HUD dies with a crackle. Comes to his feet, slams the worm’s head away with the torch, and grabs a spine as it twists in pain, flinging himself up and over its back. It shrieks, furious, but Cody doesn’t turn as it slithers around to follow.

Instead, he lunges for the dark throne sitting on a dais, for the statue of a man seated before a golden sarcophagus, and the sword that’s held loosely in stone hands.

The blade comes loose easily, double-bladed, _sharp_. There's a twisted guard around the hilt, a strange lightness even though the blade is long, and Cody hauls it free, turns, and brings it down hard just as the worm grabs for him.

It cuts through plated flesh like air, and the worm screams.

Not about to question his luck, Cody twists past its snatching bite, shoves his torch into its closest eye, and as it recoils he drives the sword right through the closest part of its neck, then wrenches down.

There's a splatter of noxious blood, and with a crash the worm hits the ground, body convulsing. Cody leaps back, out of the way of its death throes, just barely missing the tail that sweeps up and around and down, cracking the sarcophagus. One more wrench and it goes still, but from within the coffin there’s a groan.

“Oh, come _on_ ,” Cody hisses, twisting around to face the sarcophagus as a decomposing hand emerges, gripping the lid—

With a crunch, the lid slams shut. The sarcophagus lifts, and like a vast hand just closed around it, the whole thing crumples inward. Keeps crumpling, crushing down, and a moment later a big ball of gold studded with precious gems drops to the temple floor, rolls once, and stills.

In the doorway, Mace eyes Cody, the body of the worm, the sword in Cody's grip, and lowers his hand. “I assume,” he says mildly, “that you could have handled that yourself, but I saw an opportunity.”

“I don’t mind, believe me.” Cody says, dust-dry, and straightens. He looks Mace over, taking in the way he’s favoring his right leg, the faint tremor through his muscles, and grimaces. “Lightning?”

“At least they didn’t try to bite me.” Mace steps into the room, deftly avoiding the worm’s coils, and says, “I have to admit, killing a Sith war worm is much more impressive than getting rid of zombies.”

Cody snorts, then turns to look for the sword’s sheath. It takes him a second to find it, hung on the wall behind the statue, but before he can reach for it, it lifts from its hook and floats down to him. A little relieved not to have to get any closer, Cody hands the torch to Mace, catches the sheath, then belatedly glances down at the weapon he’s holding.

“I didn’t know the Sith used swords,” he says after a moment, holding the blade up to the light. There's a shifting pattern across the metal, something that changes every time Cody looks away for a moment, and he frowns.

Mace takes a very deliberate step back.

With a distinct sinking feeling, Cody looks from the sword to Mace. “Let me guess,” he says, resigned. “Cursed?”

Thankfully, Mace snorts, and though he looks wary he doesn’t look alarmed. “If a Jedi tried to touch it, most likely,” he says. “I can feel the Dark energy surrounding it from here.” Pausing, he looks Cody over, and then asks, “You feel all right?”

Strangely all right, actually. Cody touches the hole in his armor where one of the worm’s teeth caught his arm, but the ache isn't nearly what it should be. Maybe that’s adrenaline, but—

“Yeah,” he says suspiciously. “What’s it doing to me?”

Mace studies the blade for a moment, then says, “Healing you, I believe. A Force user might be able to direct its energies more efficiently, but since you can't, it’s simply acting as it needs to in order to keep you alive.”

A semi-sentient sword he found in a Sith temple is healing him. Cody pulls a face, and very deliberately shoves the thing into its sheath. “It’s not going to turn me into a zombie, is it?”

The faint curl of Mace's mouth is all amusement and equally unappreciated. “Well, it hasn’t yet.”

“Thanks,” Cody mutters resentfully, and slings the sheath over his shoulder, buckling it across his chest. The sword is still strangely light, especially compared to a blaster, but he’s not about to go wandering around this planet without some kind of weapon, and he appreciates something this sharp, regardless of where it comes from. “Outside’s clear?”

“For now.” Mace takes a few steps to the side, then leans down to pick up Cody's helmet and pauses.

Already knowing just what he’ll see, Cody takes it, touching the shattered plastoid with resignation. There’s no point in taking it with them; the helmet’s beyond saving. “Well, I guess it’s time to get a new bucket and break out the paint. That’s the end of our boosted comm transmissions, too.”

Mace inclines his head. “It saved your skull from being caved in,” he says.

There is that, Cody acknowledges wryly. “Could have been worse,” he agrees, and turns. Sets the damaged helmet down on top of the dead worm’s head, like claiming a trophy, and says, “Rex is never going to believe this.”

“I’d take a holo if I could,” Mace says dryly, and Cody laughs, stepping back. There's no space to be sentimental; his armor did its job and saved his life, and he’ll get some more as soon as they're back in civilization. It’s only the second helmet that he’s lost, though, so maybe it’s a little more regretful than it should be, to turn towards the door and leave it.

Still. At least he got a probably-cursed sword out of the whole thing. That’s nothing to sneeze at.

“What are the odds that more vornskrs are waiting outside for us?” he asks, catching Mace's elbow as they approach the stairs. Mace doesn’t protest, even leans a little of his weight into Cody's hand as they stagger up the staircase together.

“Not high,” Mace says. “The zombies likely chased them off. Or infected them.”

Zombie vornskrs. Great. Cody sighs, and when Mace's mouth twitches, he gives him a glare. “Don’t you dare laugh. This planet needs to be carpet-bombed from one pole to the other.”

One eyebrow rises, perfectly composed. “I've never laughed in my life,” Mace says.

“You're laughing on the inside, and my point stands.” Cody steps over a chunk of broken stone, then glances around the smaller room at the top of the steps and asks, “Worth waiting things out in here for a while?”

Mace pauses, glancing at the door and then at the window overlooking the cliff. There’s a bridge a short ways from them, stretching across the chasm, and a narrower one that arches away from what must be the rear entrance of the temple, ending at a jut of stone crowned with two statues. They seem ominous, even from here, but at the very least it’s a way out if they need it, in Cody's opinion.

“We can block the door,” Mace says finally. “If there are more zombies, I would rather rest before we have to face them.”

The odds that there aren’t are slim, Cody thinks, grimacing, but he moves to help Mace jam the door closed from where it’s hanging crookedly on its hinges, then stands back as Mace floats several pieces of rubble up to brace it shut. It’s not exactly a secure bunker, but—good enough for now.

“You all right?” he asks, watching Mace settle down beneath the window with a little less grace than normal.

Mace considers the question for a long moment, then lets out a breath, leaning his head back against the wall. “I will be.”

Slowly, carefully, Cody sinks down beside him. “Yeah,” he says wryly. Pauses, and then asks, “Catching Sith lightning seems like a mixed bag.”

Mace opens one eye to look at him. “Like using a Sith sword to kill a war worm,” he says, and closes it again. “It’s not a Dark technique.”

“I didn’t think it was.” Cody considers him, remembering the way he moved in the street, and then clears his throat, strangely awkward. “You, uh. I can see why you beat Jango. Nice fight.”

Mace snorts, but one corner of his mouth pulls up. “You too,” he returns. “You're quite impressive.”

Cody's chest feels strangely hot, and there’s a flicker in his lungs that wants to be a hitching breath, except he won't let it. Dragging his gaze away from Mace, he stubbornly fixes his eyes on the far wall, focusing on keeping his breathing steady.

It’s harder than it should be, and Cody can't figure out why.


	20. Chapter 20

“You're _leaving_ , Tup?” Dogma asks, startled. “Did you get transferred?”

Tup hesitates, not sure how much to say, and looks down at the spare uniform, his armor, his datapad with the work from their tactics class. There's nothing else to collect, but—

Strange, to pack it up with the idea that he might not be coming back.

“Kind of,” he says. “Uh, General Ti wants to train me as her aide, so I'm going to be staying with her.”

“ _General_ _Ti_?” Vector leans over the edge of his bunk, brows rising. “You impressed a general enough to get drafted as a personal aide?” He pauses, frowns. “When did you even have the chance?”

“Yeah,” Chance agrees from the bed above Tup's, frowning. “Wasn’t she on Coruscant for the last week?”

Dogma, though, is watching Tup, looking like he doesn’t know how to feel. “She stopped by the medbay the other day,” he says. “While we were doing physicals. Was that the first time you met her?”

She’d smiled at them, Tup thinks, ducking his head. The trainers wouldn’t, and the Kaminoans don’t, and seeing that expression on an unfamiliar face had been…startling. He’d forgotten, for a moment, just how much he hated the droids and getting pricked and poked in the name of checking his vitals, because she was _beautiful_ and her whole bearing was kind. And—

She wants him to be a Jedi. She thinks he’d make a _good_ one.

Whenever Tup thinks about it too hard, his hands shake, his heart races. He _wants_.

“Yeah,” he says, and it comes out stronger, more even. “She came by the other day, too, during the big tests. She was there when I woke up, and—she talked to me afterwards.”

Shaak Ti is a general, is a Jedi. Everything she is, Tup admires. But, Tup thinks, it was the way she treated Colt that made him agree to whatever she offered so readily. Not like a faceless clone, the way the trainers usually do, but—like he was special. Like she knew him as an individual and admired him for the qualities he had that no other clones did. Tup's had nightmares since he was decanted about terrible traitorous Jedi and evil generals, but General Ti’s nothing like that. She’s _gentle_.

Whenever she talks about feeling the Force like sunlight, Tup wants to say _you already feel like sunlight to me_. But—that’s probably not appropriate.

“Well, good luck, vod,” Chance says, and gives him a crooked smile. “Sounds like you’ll get an interesting job out of it, at least.”

“Lots of people coming at you with lightsabers,” Cay agrees, leaning against the wall with a grimace. “Better you than me.”

“Invest in some cortosis-coated vibroblades,” Vector advises, frowning. “The general’s got a big target on her back, guarding Kamino. And that target’s going to be twice as big on you, if you're guarding _her_.”

Tup shakes his head. “Even if I was, I’d just be backup. She has Commander Colt for that.”

“Still. Maybe El-Les can get you some cortosis if you sell him your soul,” Cay jokes. “He likes you, right?”

“Not as much as Domino Squad,” Chance mutters, flopping back onto the bed. “ _Domino managed this, Domino managed that, Domino hung at_ least _three stars_ —”

“They beat the hardest citadel course without rappelling gear, in the shortest time,” Dogma points out, and Chance waves a hand in irritated acknowledgement but doesn’t try to argue.

“Want some help carrying your armor?” Dogma asks Tup, point apparently made. He’s still frowning, but there’s an edge of something to his expression that Tup can't quite read.

“Sure,” Tup says, a little relieved to get away from all the questions. “General Ti’s quarters are all the way on the other side of the building, though.”

Dogma just starts picking up pieces of armor. “That’s fine. There’s nothing to do until mess call, anyway, and you shouldn’t have to make two trips.”

“Good luck, Tup,” Vector says, and when Tup glances up, Vector gives him a lazy salute. “Give our squad a good name, yeah?”

Tup wonders how they’ll take it, the revelation of _why_ General Ti wants to keep him close. Wonders if it will even amount to anything, because she’s only one person out of twelve on the council, and she said it’s unusual to take anyone fully grown as a padawan. But—if it _does_ happen, Tup's going to be a Jedi.

Probably not the way Vector means for him to give them a good name, but it’s definitely something.

“Don’t ruin our name before I can,” he counters, and Cay snorts.

“As if,” he says, but gets the door for them, and pauses to clap Tup on the shoulder. “ _K'oyacyi_.”

“ _K'oyacyi_ ,” Tup returns, and means it. He hopes that everyone in his squad manages to stay alive, far into the war. After it, potentially, even if sometimes it feels like it’s just not going to end at all.

The sound of the door sliding shut is far too loud in the otherwise quiet corridor, but Tup steels himself and keeps moving.

“Is it weird?” Dogma asks, and he’s frowning. “That General Ti picked you out of all the clones being trained? All the clones who have _been_ trained, too. She could get anyone she wanted as her aide.”

Tup shrugs. “She said the Force guided her to me,” he says, which is only slightly an exaggeration. “And I don’t mind. The general is amazing.”

“Yeah,” Dogma says, with something a little like awe. “She fought General Grievous, did you know that? And she held him off, too. She was the last Jedi left standing.”

Tup had heard something like that. The cadets like to share stories they’ve heard from trainers, or from the clones who get rotated through for ARC training or command tracks. General Ti features in a lot of the tales, because everyone knows her and she’s incredibly good in a fight, even for a Jedi.

“Maybe Vector was right about the cortosis,” Tup mutters, clutching his uniform a little tighter to his chest. General Grievous has killed a lot of clones. A lot of Jedi, too.

“Maybe,” Dogma agrees, and glances sideways at Tup. “Does that mean you're serving with Commander Colt, too? I thought he was leading the Rancor Battalion.”

“I think someone tried to assassinate General Ti,” Tup says, because that’s what General Kolar implied. “So now Commander Colt's with her all the time, instead of just on her trips to Coruscant.”

Just for a moment, Dogma looks intensely envious. “ _You're_ going to get to go to Coruscant,” he says, awed. “To the _Jedi Temple_. Not even most commanders make it there.”

Tup might make it into the temple in more ways than one. His hands tremble, and he hides it under red fabric and a careful breath.

“Yeah,” he says, swallowing. “It’s—it’s amazing.”

Dogma offers him a small smile. “I'm happy for you, vod,” he says. “Just listen to General Ti and I'm sure she’ll keep you with her.”

Tup hopes so, too. Even if the Jedi High Council lets him train, he’ll need to find someone willing to take on a clone, and—when General Ti was talking about it, all Tup could think was that he wanted _her_ to be his master. That’s probably a selfish thing to ask for, though, given all of her other duties. “I’ll do my best,” he says, and some flicker of half-caught motion in the long windows makes him glance up a moment before General Kolar rounds the corner. Instantly, Tup switches his things to one arm and salutes. “General Kolar!”

Beside him, Dogma stiffens and quickly copies the motion. “General! Do you need something, sir?”

Kolar eyes him for a moment. “Just Tup,” he says, and then, to Tup directly, “Shaak is meeting with the council and sent me to get you.”

Dogma’s eyes widen, and he slants Tup a look. Tup’s too busy trying not to panic to read it, though. “Now?” he asks, voice cracking, and winces.

Kolar’s face doesn’t quite soften, but he nods. “Have faith in the Council,” he says, softer than normal. “They’ll do the right thing.”

Tup is just worried that the right thing might be forgetting he’s supposedly Force-sensitive at all. It still feels like a dream, after all, and if _Tup_ can hardly comprehend it, how much better will the Council do?

“Okay,” he says, even so, and takes a breath, trying to control the nerves churning in his stomach.

Then, light, unexpected, a hand settles on his shoulder. Kolar touches him, and his hand is a grounding weight even if he isn’t putting pressure on Tup. “You feel nervous,” he says, and it’s not a question. “Feel it. That’s fine. Everyone does. Accept that. Then take a breath, and breathe your anxiety out into the world, so it can fade.”

Tup swallows, but does as Kolar says. It takes more than one breath, more time than he’d like, but after several moments he feels a little better, a touch steadier. Squaring his shoulders, he nods, and says, “Thank you, sir.”

Kolar inclines his head, stepping back, and glances over at Dogma again. “This one?” he asks.

Dogma pauses, looking like he doesn’t know how to take the brusqueness. However, Tup’s seen Kolar use the same tone with everyone from General Ti to the service droid who delivered their midday meals; he’s certain that it’s not because Kolar looks down on clones, the way some of the Kaminoans do, so he steps in.

“General, this is my squadmate Dogma,” he says quickly. “He was just helping me get my things together.” Pausing, he remembers that some of the trainers prefer numbers, and adds, “Uh, he’s CT-92—”

“Dogma,” Kolar says firmly, and nods to him. “Nice to meet you.”

“You too, sir, it’s an honor,” Dogma says formally, and Tup hides a smile. Dogma’s always been in awe of the Jedi. It’s nice to know that hasn’t changed.

Kolar looks unmoved by the emotion, though. He steps forward, and says, “I’ll take that, if Tup doesn’t mind. We need to hurry.”

“It’s fine, sir,” Tup says quickly, and Dogma passes over the armor without pause. “Sorry, I didn’t think it would take long—”

“Shaak wasn’t expecting the council to answer for a while, but they’re all near a comm right now,” Kolar says dismissively. He inclines his head to Dogma, then turns and sets off back down the corridor at a quick pace. A little startled, Tup waves to Dogma and hurries after him, almost jogging to keep up with Kolar’s long strides. There’s a lift waiting at the end of the hall, one of the ones reserved for the scientists, commanders, and trainers, and Kolar makes for it without pause. As soon as they’re both inside, the doors close, and it whisks off down the rail, cutting around the outside of the building.

It’s silent. It’s very, very silent, and Tup shifts awkwardly, trying to rebalance his uniform just for something to do with his hands. Finally, though, he can’t keep from glancing up, to find that Kolar has his eyes closed, his face turned towards Kamino’s stormy oceans. He looks like he’s concentrating, and Tup hesitates, but can’t stop himself from asking, “Do you…feel something? With the Force?”

With a grunt, Kolar opens his eyes. “Something,” he confirms, frowning, but not at Tup, thankfully. “An attack, maybe. Soon.”

“Oh.” Tup twists his fingers into the red fabric and takes another breath, trying to repeat the exercise for letting his anxiety go. There’s an itch at the back of his neck, like eyes on him; he’s had a bad feeling ever since he heard about the attack on one of the outposts near the Rishi system, and this feels exactly the same.

There’s a moment of silence, and then a soft, interested sound. “You feel it, too,” Kolar says, and Tup glances over to meet a narrowed dark gaze.

“Just—eyes on my back,” he says uncomfortably. “Like I’m being watched.”

Kolar tips his head, frowning. “The Force is an instinct,” he says. “If that’s how your brain translates a warning, that’s how you’ll feel.”

Tup opens his mouth, can’t find a single word in the blank expanse of his brain, and closes it again. That’s…the Force? A warning? He’d thought it was just paranoia. Like his dreams of traitorous Jedi and not being able to control his own hands.

Something cold trickles down his spine, and he clutches his uniform to his chest, trying to breathe through it.

“Do—do Jedi ever get dreams?” he asks quickly. “Like dreams of the future? Bad things?”

Without hesitation, Kolar nods. “Frequently,” he says. “You get them?”

“Yes,” Tup breathes, and closes his eyes. “I don’t—there’s a traitor and I have to kill them—I _know_ them. I don’t want to kill them but I do anyway. And I keep telling myself _good soldiers follow orders_ but it doesn’t help. There’s just—something taking me over and I _hate_ it—”

He doesn’t realize he’s shaking until a hand curls around the back of his neck. Kolar pulls him forward, out of the lift and across the hall, and before Tup can even take a breath the door is opening. Pushing him in, Kolar says sharply, “Shaak.”

General Ti is already turning, though, already stepping out of a circle of blue-shaded holos to reach them with alarm on her face. “Tup!” she says, and her hands close over his elbows, pull him in. She wraps her arms around him, fingers curling over the back of his head, and—

It’s a hug, Tup realizes dazedly. General Ti is hugging him. Because he’s panicking, and his heart is too fast, and the only thing in his head is the echo of all those awful nightmares.

“He’s been having dreams,” Kolar says from behind him. “Premonitions.”

“Oh,” General Ti says softly, and strokes Tup’s hair. “They must be very dark dreams,” she says gently. “But they are a warning, Tup, not an inevitability. The Force shares them so we can know what we must work to avoid.”

“Warnings?” Tup says, and his voice cracks again. He curses himself for it, because now she’s going to think he’s a coward, and not want to train him, and—

General Ti pulls back just enough to smile at him, her hand still in his hair, and her eyes are warm. Warm enough to leech some of the chill from Tup’s bones. “Yes. They are a glimpse of the future in the present, but we can shape it into something else with our actions.” Lightly, she cups his cheek, and says, “In these dreams, were you carrying a blaster?”

Tup doesn’t want to think about them, but—he knows that he was, immediately and without pause. “Yes,” he confesses.

General Ti smiles. “Ah, but a lightsaber is a Jedi’s weapon, and that is what you will be trained in, Tup. Already, the edges of what you saw are cracking. Soon we will dismantle the whole thing. You are not in this alone.”

The words ache in a way that’s unfamiliar. Tup swallows, nods, and pulls back, and General Ti lets him go, though she keeps a hold on one of his hands, her warm expression steady. “Thank you,” Tup tells her, a little ragged.

General Ti shakes her head. “You are very brave, to have dealt with such dreams on your own,” she says. “We Jedi have difficulties as well, and we share such things, meditate on them to lessen the fear. I will help you do the same, if you would like, Tup.”

Tup has no idea how meditation is going to help, but—just the fact that General Ti knows, that she doesn’t care, is far more of a relief than he'd thought it would be. “Please,” he says, and just hopes it doesn’t sound too pathetic. 

“As soon as the meeting is over,” General Ti promises, and glances back towards the holos. “For now, Tup, I would like to introduce you to my fellow Council members.”

Cold terror fractures in Tup's chest, but he looks at Shaak, at the circle of generals. Takes a breath, steels himself, and nods.

(General Ti wants to make him a _Jedi._ She wants to make sure he’s free and see him trained and give him a future that isn't just _good soldiers follow orders_. For that, he can be brave.)

“I'm ready,” he says, and it’s not even a lie.

General Ti smiles at him, warm and proud, and leads him into the middle of the ring. It’s small, because the room isn't that big, and the High Generals of the GAR are standing like statues around the edges of it. Tup counts nine of them—eleven with General Ti and General Kolar. There’s a space for one more, too, but it stands empty, and he eyes it, then glances around the ring, trying to remember who’s missing. Can't recall all the names and faces, though, and gets distracted halfway through, because one of the generals looks like he’s floating underwater, lekku spread out around him. Others seem to be in the middle of battlefields, their robes ripped and scorched, and one very obviously has a clone right behind him, guarding him so he can answer the comm.

“Thank you for answering so promptly, Masters,” General Ti says, coming to a halt in the center, her hand still curled around Tup's. “I will admit, I had not expected such a response.”

“Yes, well, _someone_ decided that this was the most important thing we could be doing,” Kenobi says dryly, folding his arms over his chest. The woman beside him, tall and beautiful and bearing Chalactan marks of Illumination, pinches him in the ribs with a snort.

“My doing,” a Mirialan woman says without hesitation. “Barriss looked over the files you sent, Shaak, and—” She cuts herself off, then turns, glancing behind her for a moment, and sighs. “This channel is as secure as Gree can make it, but I feel caution is not unwarranted.”

“Hrm. Agreed.” General Yoda, tiny but imposing, taps his stick against the floor, and tilts his head, looking at General Ti. “Master Ti. Found something upsetting, you have.”

“We’ll have more information soon,” Kolar says, stepping into the gap behind Tup. He looks grim, and says, “Until there, there are other matters.”

“Indeed.” Yoda cocks his head, looking Tup over, and asks, “Him, this is?”

General Ti tightens her grip on Tup's hand. “This is Tup,” she says firmly, and tugs him up beside her. Tup tries his hardest not to flinch in the face of nine strange stares, but—it’s hard. “He is a Force-sensitive clone, yes.”

“Hmm.” Yoda meets Tup's gaze for a long, long moment as Tup stares back, frozen but not about to let it sway him. “A high midichlorian count, he has.”

“High enough to rival any Jedi,” General Ti agrees, soft. “And he has dreams of the future, Master Yoda.”

Yoda looks troubled, frowning, but before he can say anything else, a Kel Dor general tips his head. “Our Recruiters have never felt a draw to Kamino before,” he says thoughtfully. “How interesting.”

“If there’s one, there must be more,” a Tholothian general says, and she’s frowning as well. “If the Kaminoans are just not testing for midichlorians—”

“They have the ability, Adi,” General Ti says softly. “I would think that either they are refraining from testing or simply decommissioning clones with high counts.”

Tup flinches, shoulders coming up just a little before he can stop the motion. The Kaminoans don’t filter out _all_ the clones they think might be…wrong. Some are within normal limits of variation, and are sent on to training. But…

There used to be a lot more decommissions, before General Ti arrived.

“Concerning, this is,” Yoda says grimly. “Hidden from us, these clones are.”

“Given the accelerated growth rate,” the Mirialan general says, “there is far less of a chance for us to find Force-sensitive clones before they reach maturity.” She folds her hands together, looking troubled. “Shaak, is there any way you can add the midichlorian test without the Kaminoans noticing? Perhaps to an early stage of development?”

General Ti shakes her head. “Not without their knowledge,” she says. “But that is not why I wished to speak to all of you today.” Lifting her chin, she looks right at Yoda and says, “Master, I would like to petition the council for the right to take Tup as my padawan. He requires training, and it is only right that he receives it.”

There's a long, long pause. Kenobi's brows are so high they're almost at his hairline, and the Tholothian general looks entirely taken aback. The Jedi being guarded by a brother, another Zabrak, is studying General Ti closely, eyes narrowed thoughtfully, and the floating Nautolan general has an expression of amusement spreading over his face.

“Master Ti,” Yoda says gravely, and something sinks in Tup's chest at his tone. “Too old, this clone is. As padawan learners, children only, we accept.”

General Ti doesn’t so much as waver. “Under normal circumstances, Master, yes. However, I believe we may all agree that these are extraordinary circumstances, and perhaps necessitate the bending of some rules.”

“Bending, perhaps,” a Cerean Jedi says sharply, “But this would be _fracturing_. The clones are mature Humans, even if they reach that state more quickly. You cannot take an adult padawan who has not been raised in a temple.”

“Master Ki-Adi-Mundi makes a fair point,” the other Zabrak says quietly. “Master Ti, this is highly unusual. Jedi are temple-raised for a reason. Our way of life is not for everyone.”

“I am well aware of that, Master Koth,” General Ti returns. “However, as we all know far too well, clones have many of the traits that we Jedi value in ourselves.” She tips her chin up, eyeing Ki-Adi-Mundi, and says, pointed, “It would also not be the first time we bent our rules for the good of a whole people.”

Ki-Adi-Mundi frowns, but before he can say anything, the Chalactan general raises her hand to cut him off. “Shaak,” she says calmly. “Would you clarify that first statement?”

“Of course, Master Billaba,” General Ti says, all cool courtesy. “The clones are raised to value the sacrifice of the self in the name of the good of many. They possess nothing, they are selfless, they are kind. The basics of what we teach all Jedi children is the same, and whatever is in need of refining, a master can address.”

The Kel Dor chuckles. “She makes a fine argument,” he says with a serene sort of cheer, and crinkles his eyes at Tup. “We have a great many reasons for our rules. But perhaps there are reasons to relax them, under certain circumstances.”

“This is a significant change,” the Tholothian general points out. “Even Skywalker was still a child when he was accepted. Tup is a cadet, and an adult.”

“Correct, Master Gallia is,” Yoda murmurs, and squints at Tup. “A fortuitous occurrence, this is. But accept him as a padawan, we cannot.”

“Master,” General Ti says, and her voice is _sharp_. Tup shoots her a startled look, because that’s not a tone he thought she _could_ take. It’s only slightly reassuring that most of the other generals are eying her the same way. “I would not bring this to you without reason, and I _am_ aware of our traditions. But Tup is Force-sensitive, to the degree that he has prophetic dreams. We cannot leave him untrained.”

General Yoda stares at her, but doesn’t say anything.

Undeterred, General Ti puts a hand on Tup's arm. “Master Yoda,” she says, and the glint in her eyes makes Tup think of her story about the akul on Shili, the way she stalked it for days through the scrub and brought it down alone, with only traditional weapons. “It was a _Jedi_ who saw to the creation of the clone army. _We_ are responsible for them, and for their involvement in this war. Because of Sifo-Dyas, there are _millions_ of clones fighting and dying on the behalf of the Republic, because a _Jedi Master_ put them in that position. If there are Force-sensitive clones who were not found in their childhood, it is still our _duty_ to train them, because _we are the reason they exist_.”

Silence, perfect and ringing.

Tup's heartbeat is fast and loud in his ears, almost loud enough to drown out Kenobi when he says quietly, “I agree with Master Ti.”

“As do I,” the Kel Dor says without pause. He glances sideways, towards General Koth, and says, “Eeth?”

The Zabrak is quiet for a long, long moment, and then he sighs, inclining his head to General Ti. “Shaak speaks the truth. The clones are the doing of a member of the Order, and their existence is on our head. If there are Force-sensitive clones, clones we did not look for in childhood, and now deploy to fight for the Republic, we are honor bound to train them.”

“I also agree,” General Billaba says thoughtfully. “We were never meant to be generals. Our goals are _peace_. Even if we don’t bear responsibility for Master Sifo-Dyas’s actions, we owe the clones who serve with us a chance at finding peace in the Force. An untrained mind with enough strength to see glimpses of the future will not rest easy without training.”

“Yes,” the Mirialan murmurs, and she smiles at Tup. “I have seen more of our values reflected in the clones than I could list in a whole Council meeting. Shaak makes a solid argument.”

“Hrn.” General Yoda looks at her for a long moment, squinting faintly, and then says, “Master Unduli, disagree with you about the virtues of the clones, no one will. However, consider the implications, we must.”

“The implications are less important than the lives we’re discussing,” General Gallia says, and rests her hand on her hip as she studies Tup. She offers him a faint smile as well, and says, “Tup, I have a question for you. Do you _want_ to be a Jedi? Even knowing that we serve the same Republic as you? Even knowing we live a life of service to the Senate and the galaxy?”

It feels like every eye is on him. Tup has to swallow before he can speak, but he nods as firmly as he can and says, “Yes, sir. I—I really want to learn. And—I want the dreams to stop. They scare me.”

General Unduli looks troubled, and across the circle she exchanges looks with the Nautolan general. “The Force has long been clouded for us,” she says carefully. “Even seeing into the future has become…very difficult. If Tup has an aptitude for it…”

“It could be valuable,” the Nautolan general finishes. “I agree with Shaak that he should be trained.”

“Thank you, Master Fisto.” Shaak inclines her head to him, then looks at Yoda again. “How many votes do you require, Master Yoda? Is nine sufficient? Or shall I aim for all twelve?”

Yoda harrumphs. “A cheeky youngling, you are still, Master Ti” he accuses, but there’s no heat to it, and Tup almost thinks he catches a flicker of humor in the old general’s eyes. “Sufficient, your nine votes are. And my own with them.” He sighs, heavy, and leans on his stick, though his eyes stay steady on Tup. “Responsible for the clones, we Jedi are. Too many lost, there already have been. Save the citizens of the Republic, we must, but…” He taps his stick firmly. “Save the clones, too, we must. Or Jedi, we are _not_.”

General Ti’s breath is low, steady, victorious. “Thank you, Master.”

Yoda harrumphs at her again. “Take Cadet Tup as your padawan, you will, Master Ti?”

“Yes,” General Ti says without hesitation, and something bright and large burns _hot_ in Tup's chest, making his head spin. “If he agrees, I would be honored to take him as my padawan.”

“Agree, do you, Cadet Tup?” Yoda asks, studying him thoughtfully.

“Yes, sir!” Tup says quickly, and maybe slightly too loudly. “I—that’s exactly what I was hoping for, sir.”

Yoda’s expression gentles into something soft, and he huffs. “A good teacher, Master Ti is. Mind her well, you must. Cadet Tup, officially accept you as a padawan learner, this Council does. Welcome.”

“Welcome,” Ki-Adi-Mundi says formally, and offers Tup a faintly crooked smile. “We do indeed bend our rules for the sake of the many.”

“Thankfully,” Kenobi says, dry, and nods to General Ti. “Congratulations to you both.”

Tup might be shaking. He can't quite tell.

Soft, fond, General Ti curves a hand around his shoulder. “Thank you, Obi-Wan,” she says, and smiles wryly. “You have far more experience with this than I, so I will rely on your guidance.”

Kenobi makes a face. “Let’s make sure Anakin's survived his latest adventure before we go handing out the accolades,” he says. “Especially considering Master Windu is with him.”

The Kel Dor general chuckles. “I’ve heard from Wolffe,” he says, “that the odds on Anakin having crashed the ship are currently three hundred to one among the men.”

Kenobi looks pained. “Oh, is that all, Master Plo? I thought they would be far higher, frankly.”

“So far,” Plo agrees easily. He turns a warm look on Tup and bows fully, a gesture that makes Tup's heart leap into his throat. That’s a _High General_ bowing to _him_. “Welcome, Padawan Tup.”

Padawan. _General Ti’s_ padawan. Tup is a _padawan_.

His next exhale shakes, but when he smiles it feels like it comes right up from his soul. “Thank you, sir.”

“Master,” General Ti murmurs, warm. “No more generals, Tup. We’re Jedi, _your_ Jedi Masters, and I have no doubt that someday you will be one as well.”

“Master,” Tup repeats, and the tremor of the nightmare is so far distant compared to the disbelieving joy that rises to swallow it. “Thank you, Master Ti.”

General Ti chuckles, reaching up to touch the edge of his hair. “To you, Tup, I'm Master Shaak,” she says. “And I believe I may even have some silka beads for your padawan braid, if you would like.”

It feels like watching newly graduated cadets be handed their first set of armor. Tup nods, quick, and has to swallow again, his throat thick. “Thank you,” he says again, unable to do anything more.

Shaak just smiles at him, warm and steady, and says, “It’s the very least that you deserve, Tup, but I think we can make the best of it.”


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An impossible number of thank yous to Sol for helping with my innumerable dumb Star Wars questions and, more importantly, allowing me to borrow their lovely Shank, because the number of named clones outside of the 501st is ridiculously small.

“—not precisely who I would have expected to bring such a thing to the Council,” Obi-Wan is saying when Rex pushes the door of his office open. “Shaak is usually quite happy to stick to tradition.”

Rex pauses in the entrance, not entirely sure he should intrude. Before he can make a sound, though, Depa sighs, and says, “Shaak knows better than most of us the cost of a Jedi's life. I don’t think either of her padawans made it even a year into their Knighthood before they were killed.”

It sounds like there was a Council meeting. Rex hadn’t realized there was one coming, and generally they're scheduled at friendlier times. It’s still hours before the first shift right now, and Rex frowns, wondering if something happened.

Clearing his throat, he belatedly raps a fist against the doorframe, and offers, “Sorry to interrupt, General Kenobi, General Billaba.”

At the desk, Obi-Wan blinks, lifting his head. He looks tired, and so does Depa, her hair out of its normal braids and falling around her shoulders. But—

There’s a softness to Obi-Wan like this, an easiness that Rex almost never sees. His hair is mussed, his tunics a little crooked in a way that speaks of haste rather than being caught in a battle, and his eyes are heavy-lidded, his smile weary but warm.

Rex carefully doesn’t think anything at all, because if he lets himself he’ll think of _everything_. 

“It’s not an interruption, Captain, don’t worry,” Obi-Wan says, and nudges a chair back in invitation. “You managed to miss the council meeting in all its glory. Good timing.”

Rex had _meant_ to drop off some forms for Obi-Wan to sign and then head back to Ponds’s quarters to get some rest, but even though he knows Obi-Wan would accept that excuse immediately, he finds himself sinking down in the free chair. Cautiously, he looks from Obi-Wan to Depa, who’s perched on the edge of the desk like a sleepy cat.

“Did something happen, sirs?” he asks warily.

There's a pause as Depa glances at Obi-Wan, and Obi-Wan glances back. For a long moment, they just share a speaking look, and then Depa sighs and tucks her hair back behind her ears. “Well,” she says wryly, “it’s hardly going to be a _secret_ , now that Shaak's gotten her way.”

Obi-Wan’s crooked smile is all agreement. “It was an emergency Council meeting,” he tells Rex. “Master Shaak Ti on Kamino sent out files earlier, and then Master Luminara Unduli took it upon herself to make sure we all read them immediately.”

“For good reason,” Depa says, and reaches right over Obi-Wan, to the comm terminal in front of Rex. Obi-Wan makes a sound of amused offense, and Depa flicks him in the forehead as she leans back. Rex refuses to feel any sort of envy over her closeness to Obi-Wan, and determinedly fixes his eyes on the holos that rise in a shimmer of blue. Then, realizing what they are, he blinks, entirely startled.

“Cadet medical files?” he asks, frowning, and flips through them, trying to find what’s so urgent that two Jedi Masters would call the rest of the Council to an immediate meeting.

Silently, Obi-Wan reaches over and touches two different files, the images rising to replace the strings of numbers and test result. Brain scans, and Rex isn't any sort of medic, but—

The big black patches in the middle of normal brain tissue are kind of hard to miss. 

“Chips,” Obi-Wan says quietly. “In every member of the squad Shaak had tested. They're not a known part of the cloning process, and one of the original ARC troopers, from the first batch of clones, had no trace of such a chip. Shaak thinks they're dangerous. She and Agen are going to investigate further, and I believe Master Luminara and Master Adi Gallia are both going to have their men checked as soon as possible.”

Nausea turns through Rex's stomach, and he grips the edge of the desk. “Brain chips,” he says, disbelieving. “Someone _chipped_ us? Like those explosive rounds they put in slaves?”

“We don’t know yet,” Obi-Wan says, and reaches out, resting a hand over Rex's on the desk. “But Rex, I promise you, we’re going to find out. If it’s dangerous for you and your brothers, we’ll find a way to deactivate or remove them. I swear.”

Rex resists the urge to press a hand against the same spot on his skull, to feel desperately for the outline of something that won't have left an outside mark. Feels sick, and desperate, and has to close his eyes for a long moment to breathe through his nose, because he’s got something in his head that could be used for _anything_ —

“Rex,” Obi-Wan says softly, and a hand curls over the back of his neck. Sinking to his knees beside Rex's chair, Obi-Wan pulls him in, and Rex gladly rests their foreheads together, breathing in Obi-Wan’s warmth instead of cold recycled air. It's a gesture another clone would offer, and he's desperately grateful for the grounding touch. “We _will_ fix this. You have my word as a Jedi. Whatever has been done to you, we won't let it stand.”

Rex's harsh breath is almost a laugh, and he opens his eyes. “I know, Obi-Wan. But someone tried, and you can't fix that.”

From this close, Obi-Wan’s eyes are sea-green and sky-blue and Rex can't think of anything else at all. “No,” he agrees, weary. “We can't. But we can do our best going forward. Shaak and Agen are already planning to access the Kaminoans’ hidden files, so we should know soon how best to proceed.”

Rex nods, just this once lets himself think about the brush of Obi-Wan’s hair against his forehead, the scratch of his beard against his cheek. Breathes, and eases back the panic, and shores up his determination enough to pull back and say, “You talked about that over _comm_?”

“Of course not,” Depa says, amused, and when Rex glances over she’s watching them both closely, a thoughtful look on her face. Rex meets her eyes, and she smiles and says, “We talked around it, and then addressed less secretive matters. There was another reason Shaak called the meeting, beyond the chips. She found a Force sensitive clone on Kamino, in training, and wanted to take him as her padawan.”

Rex blinks. Replays that sentence in his head, then looks at Obi-Wan incredulously. “A _clone_?”

“One Cadet Tup,” Obi-Wan confirms, smiling. “He was almost done with his training, but Shaak made a connection with him, and had enough suspicions to have his midichlorian count assessed. He’s firmly Force-sensitive, and I believe they were discussing padawan hairstyles when we ended the meeting.”

Rex runs through that statement, pauses, and asks, “ _Done_ with training? You mean he’s not a kid?”

“No,” Depa says. “An adult clone, but given the circumstances surrounding the creation of the clone army, Master Yoda agreed to his training.” She cocks her head slightly, and says, “I think we should make testing for midichlorian levels part of basic physicals, now that we know it’s a possibility.”

Obi-Wan eyes her curiously. “You think one of your men…?”

Depa tips one shoulder in a shrug. “Commander Grey is very resistant to Force mind-tricks,” she says. “Caleb was practicing with him, and Grey could throw off practically all of it. Caleb was entirely discouraged until Soot volunteered to take Grey’s place, and he didn’t have a problem. Perhaps it’s nothing, but in light of Shaak's findings…”

“Perhaps it’s something,” Obi-Wan agrees.

Clones. Clones as _Jedi_. Rex pauses, trying to let that idea sink in, and shakes his head. “There can't be that many,” he says. “We would _know_. It’s—” But he can't find the justification, and Obi-Wan just looks tired.

“Force sensitivity can manifest as good instincts,” he says. “Tup was having nightmares of the future. I've seen it as heightened empathy, or an awareness of what people will say before they say it. Increased agility, or a sensitivity to danger—it’s not always an obvious thing.” He glances at Depa again, and offers, “There likely won't be a vast number. Force-sensitives are rare, even among large populations, and there's no saying if all those we find will want full training. Tup did, but we’re certainly not going to require that any clone with a talent for the Force immediately enter the temple.”

Depa hums. “There are very few Jedi,” she says, leaning forward to prop her elbows on her knees, her chin on her laced hands. “And fewer Masters among us who can take on students. I would hope that we find all potentially Force-sensitive clones, but—I do wonder how many there will be. Even those who don’t wish to be Jedi will need to at least know how to control their abilities, and that requires teaching.”

Rex looks down at his own hands, curled in his lap. Thinks about clones as Jedi, serving the Republic as generals, and wonders what that would mean for their standing. Still property? Still weapons grown in a lab? Jedi answer to the Senate, but they’re a separate entity, a religious order that keeps its own customs. There’s a level of freedom in that, something the clones don’t have right now.

Just for an instant, Rex wishes desperately, _achingly_ that he was one of the Force-sensitive clones. That he could have that life, and not have to worry about a future of being decommissioned when the war is over, if he even makes it that long.

Then, with a grimace, he releases a breath and lets the feeling fade. He doesn’t want to be a Jedi. They're good people, and kind, and selfless, and Rex admires that but doesn’t want to be the same way. He’s seen how Anakin and Ahsoka react to battlefields in the aftermath, to places where killings have occurred. Has seen Obi-Wan try to block out negative emotions, or the pain of the people around him, or suffer nightmares about a dark future. Being tapped into a power like that would be hell, and Rex doesn’t want it even a little.

“I think most brothers will take you up on it,” he says. “Being Jedi. But some won't.”

Obi-Wan sighs, running a hand through his hair as he rises. Gently, he squeezes Rex's shoulder, then drops his hand, though he doesn’t step away. “Including the test in physicals is a good idea,” he tells Depa. “I’ll have Shank add it to the protocols for the rest of the medics, and see about updating the system for the GAR as a whole.”

Depa chuckles. “Have I mentioned how concerning it is that you have a medic named Shank, Obi-Wan?”

“He is lovely, thank you very much,” Obi-Wan retorts. “And I'm sure anyone he stabbed was rather desperately asking for it.”

Rex, who has heard Obi-Wan call his medic everything from an _inconveniently observant bloodhound_ to _a fine specimen of the bloodthirsty medic species_ to _unnervingly fond of stabbing sentients with needles_ , raises an incredulous brow at him. Obi-Wan pointedly ignores him.

Before Rex can set the record straight, however, Obi-Wan’s comm goes off. There's a moment of silence as he and Depa both eye it warily, and then Obi-Wan sighs.

“Odds that it’s Luminara trying to catch me in bed again?” he asks, forcing his voice towards good humor.

Depa laughs at him. “Odds that Commander Gree will poison your tea for flirting with her while naked?” she counters.

“I don’t flirt,” Obi-Wan says, offended. “And certainly not with Luminara.”

The sheer ridiculousness of that statement makes Rex gape. “You flirt with _Dooku_ ,” he says incredulously. “Obi-Wan, you flirt with _me_.”

Obi-Wan’s eyes widen, and unless Rex is very much mistaken, he flushes faintly. “That,” he says with dignity, “is an entirely different matter—”

“Oh?” Depa asks, smirking. “Is it, Obi-Wan?”

With a huff, Obi-Wan slumps back into his chair, folding his arms over his chest. “You don’t get to say that,” he retorts. “You flirt with Senator Amidala every time she’s within twenty paces of you.”

Depa rolls her eyes. Rex has seen Mace Windu make the exact same expression, and it’s kind of hilarious how well she matches it. “Answer your comm, Obi-Wan.”

Like an offended cat, Obi-Wan hits the button. “Kenobi,” he says, giving Depa a narrow look.

Depa just smirks at him, perfectly pleased with herself.

“General,” Ponds says over the channel. “You’re needed on the bridge immediately. We found something.”

That doesn’t sound good at all.

“And what might this something be, Commander?” Obi-Wan asks, though he’s already on his feet and heading for the door, Depa right behind him.

Rex follows quickly, bringing up the rear, and manages to catch it when Ponds says, “Commander Grey noticed an anomaly in one of General Billaba’s scans during their approach, and we processed it. A Republic ship crossed into the nebula outside of the range of our scanners, but its transponder was scrambled.”

Depa frowns, and Obi-Wan glances back at Rex, something grimly resigned crossing his face. “No chance of identifying it, Commander?”

“No, sir.” Ponds sounds slightly frustrated. “We can tell it’s from the Republic, but nothing else.”

“Thank you, Commander. We’re on our way.” Obi-Wan closes the channel, then glances over at Rex again. “Suddenly, this whole invasion feels rather too much like a distraction, Captain.”

“Just a little,” Rex says grimly. Grievous trying to take Ord Radama was a threat, but—it being a way to draw their attention makes far more sense. “The ordnance bunkers have long-range scanners, don’t they?”

“They were disabled when the Seps captured them, so he must have had them destroyed,” Obi-Wan confirms, the line of his mouth thin. “And with all of our attention fixed on locating Grievous, and then Anakin and Master Windu, repairing them wasn’t the priority.”

If Depa hadn’t arrived unexpectedly, if her ship hadn’t picked up something, if Grey hadn’t noticed, they wouldn’t know at all, Rex thinks. It’s sheer luck they caught it.

They're in need of some good luck, at this point, but somehow Rex suspects there’s a whole host of bad news lurking just beneath the surface.

“I can't believe this planet has _zombies_ ,” Fives says, scandalized by the ridiculousness of it. He twists, glancing over the low wall they're hunkered down behind, then quickly ducks back under cover and says, “Three of them, forty meters away but heading east.”

General Skywalker grimaces, shoving Kix's helmet down a little further behind the low spot in the wall. “Where’s Master Obi-Wan and his ability to redirect Sith lightning when you need him,” he mutters, eyeing the distance between them and the next nearest cover. “Kix, anything?”

Kix shakes his head. “However Commander Cody connected to us before, it’s not working now. Maybe they're just out of range.”

“Maybe they got _eaten_ ,” Fives mutters, though he really hopes not. General Windu's nice. Cody's a jerk, but that’s probably to be expected of someone in the 212th. At least, that’s what Captain Rex always says.

“No,” General Skywalker says firmly. “I can feel Master Windu out there, even if I can't reach him.” He frowns, looking deeply concerned for a moment, and then says, “I’d be worried about the _planet_ eating him, actually.”

Fives looks at Kix, confused, to find Kix looking back with equal bewilderment. “The _planet_ , sir?” he asks.

“It’s Dark,” Skywalker says, like that explains everything. “And Master Windu might walk the line between Light and Dark, but if he’s here too long, I think it might try to take him, no matter how much he fights it.”

“What about you, sir?” Kix asks, concerned. “Is it only certain Jedi, or can it…take you too?”

Skywalker hesitates, looking away. His right hand curls into a fist, and he breathes out. “There's a lot of Darkness,” he says, like it’s a confession. “But—it’s like it’s easier to see the light here, too. There's so little of it. It's...like a reminder.”

That’s not any less confusing, and Fives pulls a face behind the safety of his helmet, wishing Echo was here. Wishing _Cutup_ was here, and not dead uselessly on a rocky Rishi moon. Cutup always knew what to do, even if he was a bastard about telling them all, sometimes.

“I love that you think that makes sense,” Fives mutters. Remembers, belatedly, to tack, “Sir,” onto the end of it, and suffers through Kix's thump on the arm with a roll of his eyes.

Skywalker makes an offended face at him, which is hilarious, because it looks a lot like one of Hevy’s. “Just because you're Master Windu's favorite doesn’t mean you have to pick on me, too,” he complains.

Fives blinks, startled. “His _favorite_?” he asks. “Wait, do you _mean_ that?”

Skywalker snorts, and there's a smirk spreading over his face. “You're the one wearing his robe, Fives, you tell me.”

Fives blinks, looking down at the practical brown cloth. “My undersuit’s ripped!” he protests. “He was just being nice!”

“If my clothes got ripped, he’d make me weave new ones out of swamp grass,” Skywalker tells him. “He just _gave you_ his own clothes like it was nothing.”

“The 91st shared rations with civilians on Ryloth,” Kix observes, faintly amused. “And everyone in Lightning Squadron would die for him, sir. _And_ I think we can safely say that no matter how much of a jerk Commander Cody can be, he wouldn’t have married General Windu if he was cruel.”

“Jedi aren’t cruel,” Skywalker says, like it’s a kneejerk response, then pauses. Adds, more slowly, “He’s not…cruel. Just cold.”

“Really?” Fives asks, surprised. He thinks back, trying to see it, but— “He slows down, when we’re walking together.”

Skywalker blinks at him, like he doesn’t get it.

“He’s taller,” Kix says, waving a hand at Fives. “Taller than us, at least, so he’s got longer strides. And we’re wearing pretty heavy armor, while he’s just in Jedi robes. General Windu slows down so that we don’t have to hurry to keep up. And if we’re going up something steep, he always helps me up first. Because the medkit’s heavy.”

“And he got us over the wall, when we were going to help Ghost Company,” Fives points out. “We could have climbed it, but it would have made us targets for any droids behind us, so he lifted us. He got between me and the Magna Guards, too.”

Frowning faintly, Skywalker looks between them. “I guess I didn’t notice,” he says slowly.

Kix just shrugs. “The 91st has never complained, either. Some Jedi usually try to focus on the enemy, but General Windu protects his men even when it slows him down. Clones talk about that kind of thing.” A pause, and he gives Fives a sideways smirk through his helmet. “He hasn’t throttled Fives for bombarding him with questions yet, either.”

“Hey!” Fives protests, offended.

“Oh.” Skywalker ignores Fives, sinking back against the wall. This time, his frown is more thoughtful than anything. “He talks to the padawans like that, too. And…I guess to everyone.”

Fives eyes him, debates opening his mouth. After a second, though, he can't resist, and he asks, “You don’t like him very much, do you, sir?”

“ _Fives_ ,” Kix says, exasperated.

Skywalker doesn’t answer immediately, though. There's a long, long pause, and then he says, “I don’t know.”

Fives wants to ask why, but before he can, Skywalker twists to his feet. “They’re gone,” he says. “Come on, the citadel’s up ahead.”

The citadel is _way too close_ , in Fives's opinion. The whole thing is creepy. Still, he gets to his feet, offers Kix a hand up, and picks up his blaster. Not that it’s been doing him any good against the _zombies_. Only lightsabers seem to manage that, and even then only when Skywalker can manage to dodge the evil Force lightning long enough to hit them.

Fives _hates_ being helpless. It feels like bolting out of Rishi station and seeing it explode behind him, with Hevy still inside. Feels like Driodbait in the entrance, killed trying to hold off the droids as they took the base. Like Cutup, caught by a Rishi eel for no karking reason except he was standing in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“Easy,” Kix says quietly, and claps him lightly on the shoulder as he steps past. “The general will get us there in one piece. He doesn’t leave troopers behind.”

Fives has heard that from a lot of brothers. He kind of prefers it when there are _two_ Jedi around, though. Especially when one of the two is General Windu. He’s the one who managed to beat Jango Fett in a fair fight, after all. When Fives heard they were going to be aboard the _Endurance_ , he’d hoped desperately to just get a glimpse of him. And now they're all on the same mission. Well. If this counts as a mission.

Still. Fives is fairly certain that there’s nothing on this planet that could take out General Windu _and_ Commander Cody. Nothing would _dare_.

“Even the _flowers_ here want to kill us,” Cody hisses, sounding disgusted. “Where’s an aerial bombardment when you need it?”

Mace very carefully doesn’t let his amusement show, helping Cody pull the last of the long, poisoned thorns from his armor. “I told you,” he says calmly. “There are no upsides to Sith planets.”

“Believe me, I'm convinced,” Cody mutters, wrenching one more thorn out and then straightening. “I could even do with _less_ convincing, honestly.”

Somehow, Mace doubts they’re likely to encounter _fewer_ obstacles the closer they get to the citadel. “Well,” he says. “You certainly convinced the flowers.”

Cody gives him the look that statement probably deserves. “They're four feet tall and spit poisoned thorns.”

“Somehow,” Mace says dryly, “I doubt a cursed Sith warblade was meant to double as a hedge trimmer, but I'm glad it worked.”

With a grimace, Cody raps his knuckles against the hilt of the sword, safely strapped at his waist now instead of across his back. “It figures whoever made a cursed sword wouldn’t bother to make a practical sheath,” he says, disdainful.

Mace is honestly far fonder of Cody than he had expected to be, before their marriage. It takes actually effort not to let his humor show, and he looks away, then says, “I think we can leave the gardens behind us.”

“Please.” Cody casts another glance back, to where the remaining handful of dart flowers have turned their heads to look at them, and narrows his eyes. Then, deliberately, he turns his back on them, offering Mace a hand. Mace takes it, letting Cody pull him to his feet, and tries not to grimace at the pull of too-stiff muscles. Obi-Wan and Anakin's encounter with Dooku’s Force lightning prompted him to look up old Jedi techniques for countering it, but—apparently he needs more practice, to go along with the theory.

Not that practice is likely to be in short supply, with all the zombies between them and the citadel.

“All right?” Cody asks, frowning faintly as he watches Mace move. “We didn’t exactly sit around that temple for long.”

If they had, Mace has no doubt another war worm would have crawled out of somewhere. That seems to be how the trek is going.

“Stiff,” Mace allows, because he knows better than to hide something that could be a hindrance in a fight. “The mud baths aren’t nearly as relaxing as they could be.”

Cody snorts. “If you keep pretending not to have a sense of humor, General Skywalker's going to have a heart attack next time you make a joke,” he warns.

 _As if that isn't the whole point_ , Mace doesn’t say.

“Like that, is it,” Cody says dryly, reading the response on Mace's face. “Then you get to be the one to explain it to General Kenobi.”

“If you're expecting Obi-Wan to take Anakin's side, I think you’ve underestimated the padawan and master bond,” Mace says. “And overestimated how easy we intend to make life for our students.”

“Fives is in for a hell of a time,” Cody says, amused, and pauses at the top of a steeply inclined street. It’s still too dark to make out much, but Mace thinks he catches movement in the shadows, all up and down the wide avenue, as lightning flickers overhead.

“I believe Fives will do just fine,” Mace says, though he can't quite pull his eyes away from the citadel. The base of it is wide, dark, and getting in is only going to be the first of their problems.

Beside him, Cody is equally silent for a long, long moment, and then he sighs. “Our marriage won't end up amounting to much if we spend all of it on a Sith planet way outside Republic space.”

Mace weighs his words for a long moment before he says, “I never meant it to be something you would regret, Cody.”

Cody casts him a sideways glance, unreadable. “I don’t,” he says, turning his eyes ahead of them again. “Not the marriage part. It’s just frustrating, getting stranded here. If I'm going to go out—”

He doesn’t finish, but Mace knows what follows, even without having to touch Cody's mind. _If I'm going to go out, I’d rather do it with the whole galaxy knowing I'm free_.

An understandable sentiment, in light of everything.

“Dromund Kaas won't hold us forever,” he says, unwavering, and believes it. It’s only practical. They’ll keep trying until they find a way off. “We already have a ship.”

Thankfully, that makes Cody snort. “Let’s hope General Skywalker doesn’t crash this one,” he says, and starts down the hill, moving carefully. It’s completely dark beyond the flickers of lightning, but stealing a torch from the temple seemed too much like throwing up a beacon declaring their location, and by unspoken agreement they’d left it behind.

Mace considers the silence between them as they move, half of his attention on their surroundings but half of it on Cody. Arranges things he could say, then rejects them, one after the other, and finally settles on, “I’m aware that our marriage feels…strangling, but I would hardly hold you to vows we didn’t take. If you wish to find someone, I won't object.”

Cody doesn’t look at him, keeps his gaze fixed forward. “Won't that look bad, when we’re arguing for a love match?”

“Love doesn’t have to have anything to do with sex,” Mace says.

The breath Cody lets out is exasperation barely covering embarrassment. “No, it doesn’t, but—too many complications.”

Mace inclines his head, accepting that. Cody thinks like a soldier, and it isn't a surprise. Maybe, at some point, he’ll change his mind, and Mace will accept whatever decision he makes then.

“You know, it’s the same for you,” Cody says suddenly, and a flicker of lightning washes across the sky, enough for Mace to catch the look Cody turns on him. “If there’s someone—I know you and General Koon are…uh. Close—”

“Ah,” Mace says, eternally longsuffering in the face of such persistent belief in an affair that doesn’t exist. “Plo very much enjoys winding up the rest of the Council with rumors. _Unfounded_ rumors.”

There's a startled pause, and then Cody laughs. “He’s gossip-mongering? To annoy the Council that he’s _on_?”

“Plo Koon,” Mace says dryly, “has never met a mischief he did not embrace wholeheartedly.” He feels the skepticism that rises more than sees it, and snorts. “Ask Wolffe.”

“I will,” Cody says, and then, “If a zombie wanted to try and eat us right now, I wouldn’t object.”

Not a comfortable conversation. Mace is glad to know the feeling isn't just on his part. He snorts, tilting his head to judge the next street for obstacles, and catches a glimpse of more dart flowers waiting. Instead of trying to mow them down, he slips through the next gap in the crumbled buildings and leads Cody over to the next street, this one curving past the edge of the ravine in places.

Mace doesn’t even think to mind the drop, but Cody gives it a wary look and deliberately walks on Mace's other side. “If some kind of monster comes out of the pit, I'm going to go back and wait by the crash site,” he says, resigned.

“No, you won't,” Mace says, raising a brow at him. “You're the one carrying the impossibly sharp Sith sword.”

Cody sighs. “No, I won't,” he allows. “Anything?”

Mace's senses have been reliably unreliable, and he can't quite shake the memory of Anakin's instincts leading him in the opposite direction of Mace's, every time they tried to make a decision. Can't tell if that makes him distrust Anakin or himself more, but dislikes it either way. Still, he reaches out, trying to feel anything—

Stops, perfectly still, as a figure coalesces out of thin air, Darkness thick around it, with one bright soul caught in the coil of it.

“Mace,” Qui-Gon says, ragged. _Looks_ ragged, still solid but _worn_ as he staggers a step closer. His eyes are wide, steel blue the way they always were, but he’s hurt. It’s easy to see. Mace _knows_ the dangers of letting sentiment blind him, but his heart still lurches in his chest, and he wants nothing more than to take a step forward, to catch Qui-Gon with the instinct of a lifetime.

“They have the boy,” Qui-Gon says, and Mace stills, breath catching. Qui-Gon looks up at him, right through Cody, and there’s a familiar sort of fear on his face. “Mace,” he insists, desperate, the same tone Mace once heard when Obi-Wan was in trouble. “They caught Anakin. You _must_ save him. Please.”


	22. Chapter 22

With a sharp sound of alarm, Cody wrenches Mace back, puts himself between Mace and the phantom. The sword practically leaps into his hand, as if it’s eager for use, but Cody can't even spare a thought to worry about that. Mace is perfectly still, frozen, and the phantom is reaching—

Its hand comes within ten centimeters of the warblade and stops.

It looks like a man, Cody thinks. It acts like someone Mace knew, but it did that before, too. He saw their first confrontation, the way the ghost stepped close and Mace didn’t move away. Trust, he thinks, and it’s a cold, calculating thing. Trust is an easy thing to use against people.

“I'm afraid,” the ghost says after a moment, “that I don’t know you, soldier.”

The tone grates. Polite, wary, like he’s assessing Cody's threat towards Mace, and Cody tips his chin up, eyes the phantom without wavering. “Doesn’t matter,” he says shortly. “Keep your distance.”

“Qui-Gon,” Mace says behind him, though he doesn’t try to move. “Who has Anakin? Who took him?”

“The Prophets,” Qui-Gon answers, and Cody can _hear_ both the capital letter and the headache they're inevitably going to be. Just great. “In the Dark Force Temple, at the heart of the swamp. Please, Mace, if they corrupt him—”

“I know your feelings about the prophecy, Qui-Gon,” Mace says, and Cody can't tell if it’s short, can't tell if he believes it. Doesn’t want to risk a glance back to check his expression, either, so he keeps his eyes on the ghost and trusts Mace to know what he’s doing.

“You say that as though you don’t believe it, my old friend,” Qui-Gon says, and his smile is crooked. Invites nostalgia, and Cody doesn’t like it. “But we spent long hours discussing it as padawans, and I know you were never as cynical as you made yourself seem.”

“We did,” Mace allows, and stops. There's a long minute of silence, and then he says, “Where was he captured? In the citadel?”

“On the approach,” Qui-Gon agrees. “Please, hurry, Mace.”

“That’s odd.” Mace folds his arms over his chest, tone cool. “Because Anakin was headed back towards the crash site, to see what he could scavenge.”

Cody keeps his expression perfectly neutral, not even letting a flicker of emotion show.

“I only saw them bring him in,” Qui-Gon says, spreading his hands. “It took everything in me to escape their hold, Mace, but as soon as I knew they had him, I came to find you.”

“Did he give you a message for me?” Mace asks, and finally moves. He touches Cody's shoulder, just briefly, as he passes, but—

That faint push right was definitely not an accident. A warning, far more likely. 

“I didn’t speak with him,” Qui-Gon says, and his smile is rueful. “I didn’t think he would trust me, but I know how you trust your instincts, Mace.”

“Funny,” Mace says. “Last time I trusted them with you, you almost took my head off.”

Impatience flickers across Qui-Gon’s face. “Their control is absolute when they try, Mace. I wouldn’t hurt you, not as I am now. You know that.”

“Do I?” Mace raises a brow at him. “You can interact with the physical world right now, Qui-Gon. Why come to me, instead of just freeing Anakin yourself? Those five troopers with him would have helped in a heartbeat.”

“They're unconscious,” Qui-Gon says. “And I wouldn’t have risked staying where they could recapture my spirit. Mace, please—”

The hum of a lightsaber igniting comes half a moment before a wash of violet light spreads around them.

“You're lying,” Mace says quietly. “Or you're being controlled, Qui-Gon. Either way, I don’t trust a single word you’re saying.”

Qui-Gon pauses, expression twisting. Cody thinks he catches a flash of grief there, an instant of resignation before it settles into calm lines.

“You always were too suspicious for your own good, Mace,” Qui-Gon says, soft. “It ruined things, in the end.”

Mace snorts. “Your memories are twisted, Qui-Gon. Whatever is reading them is mistaken. But thank you for telling me exactly what place we should avoid, while we’re here. The Dark Force Temple, wasn’t it?”

Shaking his head, Qui-Gon steps back, one hand going to his belt. Cody tenses, watching his fingers close around the hilt of his lightsaber, and—

Scraping steps from right behind them, loud in the hush.

“Do you have a preference, Cody?” Mace asks, like they're picking between appetizers at a restaurant somewhere.

With a huff, Cody turns, facing the four zombies closing in on them from the rear. “Dead bodies or ghosts? What choices.”

“Don’t get electrocuted,” Mace tells him helpfully, and then, “Qui-Gon. Scared to face me?”

“Face you? No. But I would hate to hurt you,” Qui-Gon murmurs, even as another lightsaber hums to life. “My old friend—”

“Old friends don’t lead each other into traps,” Mace says, and is gone from Cody's back. The hiss of lightsabers colliding puts the hairs on the back of Cody's neck up, but he doesn’t turn, doesn’t waver. There’s lightning crackling to life around one zombie’s hands, sparks dancing across shrunken flesh and decayed skin, and Cody grimaces. Maybe he made the wrong choice after all.

Still. At least a sword will probably serve him better than his blaster here. Cody knows how to use vibroblades, and he’s willing to bet that the “handle end in hand, pointy end in enemy” technique works just as well with ancient swords.

Just as the closest zombie raises its hands, Cody ducks sideways, leaps forward. He doesn’t aim for the first one, but the one behind it, slams shoulder-first into its chest and topples it, then spins and slams the hilt against the third’s already-cracked skull. It staggers, and Cody kicks its legs out, twists around a spray of lightning that hits the zombie rather than him, and swings the sword hard, two hands on the hilt and all of his strength behind it.

Like with the worm, it cuts with impossible ease, straight through cloth and flesh and bone, and the zombie collapses into pieces, unmoving, as the last few sparks die away.

Well then.

Smirking, Cody turns on the remaining three as they pull themselves up, raises the sword in front of him. He’s not a showy idiot like Rex, isn't about to spin his blasters or something, but—maybe he can understand why Rex does, right now.

“I never was a fan of fair fights,” he says. “Let’s get this over with.”

The closest one takes a step forward, but Cody spins to the side, sword leading, takes its head right off its neck with one blow. A surge of power gives him warning just in time, and he leaps up, hauls himself onto the edge of a scattered chunk of stone, then takes three running steps and drops, landing boots-first on one of the zombies and stabbing downward. Twists up, catches sight of movement, and throws himself sideways, rolling under another wash of electricity just a little too slow, wary as he is of the ravine looming beside the battlefield, too close to where he’s fighting.

Only the edge hits him, but just one jolt feels like getting kicked, and Cody gasps, forces himself up with the warblade leading, and slashes right through the next zombie. Looks to the last—

And finds a blaster leveled at his face, clutched in a rotting hand.

“Oh, _come on_ ,” Cody hisses, and launches himself forward. A bolt just misses his head, and he hits the zombie around the waist, flattening it completely. Stabs downward, then rolls to his feet, kicking the blaster out of reach, and looks for the next attacker. The only one he can see is Qui-Gon, though, spinning and ducking and dancing with Mace as they fight, and he takes a step away from the edge of the ravine.

In the same moment, Qui-Gon leaps back, lashes out. Mace is lifted right off his feet, hurled sideways into a crumbling wall with a crack that’s entirely unsettling. Cody makes a sound of alarm, ready to run, to step in—

“He might think his identity doesn’t matter, but you do, don’t you, my old friend?” Qui-Gon says, still gentle, still kind. He turns, raising a hand, and Cody feels the exact moment a vast force hits him. He shouts, but there’s no saving himself. He’s thrown back, right over the edge of the cliff, and tumbles down into the darkness like he’s being hurled towards the ground so far below.

There's no pause. There isn't even a hesitation. In a blur, Mace leaps past Qui-Gon and throws himself over the side right after Cody. Cody reaches for him, desperate, and Mace twists, grabs his arm as they tumble down down down through the darkness. They're slowing, the lurching fall becoming an easier float—

Cody has half a second to feel relief before the thing waiting at the bottom opens its eyes.

It feels like a tremor shakes through Fives's bones, and he trips on flat ground, lands hard on one knee. Drops his blaster, vision greying out for half a moment, and sucks in a breath that feels as sharp-edged as knives going into his lungs.

His chest aches like watching the Rishi moon base go up in flames, and he can't quite catch his breath.

“Fives!” General Skywalker says, alarmed, and a moment later he’s kneeling in front of Fives, expression very clearly one of concern. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

Fives can't breathe. Quickly, frantically, he wrenches his helmet off, dumps it to the side, but it doesn’t help. If anything, the flicker of the lightning above makes his vision spin, and he ducks his head, trying not to gag as nausea rises. Shakes his head, all the answer he can manage, and twitches when Kix grabs his shoulder.

“Kix?” Skywalker demands. “What’s wrong with him?”

“Nothing,” Kix says, though he sounds even more worried than Skywalker. “I don’t see anything, there’s no wound—”

“It’s not—” Fives closes his eyes, trying to control himself. “Something—something snapped. I don’t—I feel sick, I can't—”

Skywalker is staring at him, wide-eyed. “Snapped,” he repeats, and touches Fives's head with his left hand. Tips his head up, looking him over, and says, “Inside your head?”

Fives hesitates, not quite able to tell. “Everywhere,” he says helplessly. “I don’t—”

Skywalker turns, looking out over the rest of the city, and there’s disbelief crystallizing into realization in his expression. “Master Windu vanished,” he says. “I can't feel him anymore. But—how can _you_ feel that, Fives?”

 _Master Windu vanished_ , Fives thinks, and it rings in his ears, too loud, too _true_. He didn’t believe, before, that anything could have gotten General Windu or Commander Cody, but now, now—

Now there's a gap. Something’s _missing_ even though it was there just a moment ago, and Fives feels colder even in the suffocating press of the planet’s humidity.

“Why would Fives be able to feel that?” Kix asks, careful as he picks his words. “Isn't that a Jedi thing, sir?”

Skywalker hesitates, then raises a hand. “Can I, Fives?” he asks, and Fives nods without knowing what he’s agreeing to, but trusting the general. Skywalker just touches his fingertips to Fives's temple, a light brush that’s followed by careful pressure _inside_ his head. It’s not unpleasant, but it feels _weird_ , and Fives can't help but pull a face.

“Sir?” he asks.

Skywalker glances at him, and he looks bemused. “The fact that you can even feel me doing this means you’ve got some rudimentary shielding,” he says. “It feels pretty new, though, and if something hits you too hard it’s going to break.”

“Shielding,” Fives repeats, lost.

Dropping his hand, Skywalker sits back on his heels. “Yeah,” he says. “You're shielding your mind. Because you're Force-sensitive. You had some kind of bond starting with Master Windu, and it just broke.”

Fives can't even breathe.

“Force-sensitive?” Kix echoes. “But—we’re clones, sir. We _can't_ be. Jango wasn’t, so—how could it even happen?”

Skywalker just shrugs. “Don’t look at me. My mom ended up pregnant without any man involved, just from the Force, and that’s not even the weirdest thing I've seen. I have no idea how it works most of the time.”

That doesn’t help. Fives closes his eyes, trying to think, trying to work through it. General Windu is gone, gone _somewhere_ , and Fives _knows_ that as if he saw it happen himself. He can feel Skywalker in his head, like he dipped his fingers into his brain, and that shouldn’t be possible. But—

“Is that why General Windu was being so nice?” he asks, bewildered.

Skywalker pauses, like the question is surprising. “Maybe,” he says after a moment. “A lot of Jedi find the padawans they end up training, like they're called right to them. If Master Windu was feeling the same thing about you, that could be how the bond started. It’s—it’s not something conscious, I think. It just happens.”

And now he’s gone. Not _dead_ , because that wasn’t death. That was vanishing, and they're different, Fives is sure of that. He swallows, scrubs a hand over his face, and breathes in. Lets it out, careful, deliberate, and raises his head.

“We need to keep moving,” he says. “Sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to hold us up.”

Skywalker frowns at him. “You didn’t, Fives,” he says, and claps him lightly on the shoulder. “We need to change direction, anyway. If Master Windu is in trouble, we have to save him.”

Everything in Fives wants to agree. He _needs_ to, because if General Windu is still out there he needs help. But—

“No, sir,” he says steadily. “We don’t know how much longer that ship is going to be here. If it takes off before we can steal it, we might never get off this planet, and the Republic needs all the Jedi right now.”

Skywalker hesitates, frowning. He looks from Fives to Kix, frowning, and then says, “We can't split up. Neither of you can manage on your own on a Sith planet, even together, and you’ll need the Force to get into the citadel, so I can't leave. Either we all go or none of us do.”

The flicker of an idea is rising, but Fives tamps it down, doesn’t acknowledge it directly. “So we all go and get the ship,” he says. “And then we can look for General Windu and Commander Cody.”

“It’s the best option, sir,” Kix agrees quietly. “Even if there are guards, with you we can take the ship easily. It must have sensors, so it will make it easier to find General Windu, too.”

With a grimace, Skywalker concedes. “All right, citadel first. It might not be _easy_ , though, especially if there’s some kind of Sith Lord in there. Even if it’s just Dooku.”

Fives doesn’t bother pointing out that Dooku probably wouldn’t be able to get his hands on a diplomatic cruiser from Coruscant, because Skywalker probably already knows that. Instead, he nods, and says, “Main entrance, sir?”

Kix makes a resigned, unhappy noise and shoves Fives's helmet back into his hands. “ _No_ ,” he says, to Skywalker and Fives in equal measure.

Skywalker grins, a flash of white in the darkness. “Come on, Kix, live a little. We can at least go _look_ at the front door.”

“No offense, sir, but looking is going to turn into _acting_ ,” Kix retorts. “I’ve been on plenty of missions with you. That’s how it always goes.”

“Not _always_ ,” Skywalker protests. “Besides, Master Windu told me to listen to my instincts. They're saying we should check out the front.”

“Your instincts? Or your boredom?” Kix mutters, but he follows Skywalker to his feet and gives Fives a careful look as he rises. “You're all right, Fives?”

“Yeah,” Fives says, and it’s almost the truth. He’s cold, and his head is ringing a little, but he’s steady enough. “I'm fine.”

Skywalker nods, taking him at his word, and jerks his head towards the row of lights that cut through the darkness like flares below them. “Well, gentlemen. I hope you're ready for some sneaking.”

“Are you, sir?” Kix mutters, but Skywalker ignores him, leaping lightly down a pile of crumbling stone threaded through with tree roots. Kix follows, and Fives brings up the rear, sliding his bucket back on reluctantly. There’s an itch under his skin, urging him on, but he breathes through it, keeps moving. He’ll get his chance, even if he has to make it.

As they near the citadel, the streets open out, becoming wider, straighter. There are fewer shambling, decomposing corpses here, too, which is a relief, and the ones they come across they can see in plenty of time to avoid. The citadel grows larger with each step, looming, and Fives tries not to look at it directly, even as they skirt the wide road lined with dark statues that flank the entrance, each one holding a red sword easily twice the height of a Human. The great doors of the citadel come clear slowly, the reddish glow of the lights from above casting strange shadows over everything.

And then, sudden, Skywalker comes to a halt, breath catching audibly. Instantly, he drops, dragging Kix down with him, and Kix catches Fives's arm and pulls him down onto his stomach as well. Fives hits hard, then crawls up to get level with the others, leaning over the lip of the building they're on.

“Sir?” he murmurs, then catches sight of what Skywalker noticed and freezes.

Skywalker nods at the doorway, looking grim. “That’s one of the Coruscant Guard,” he says darkly. “Kix, know him?”

“ _What_ ,” Fives hisses, leaning out further. The red and white armor is distinctive, though, and the clone stationed there is carrying a Z-6 rotary blaster, just like Hevy used to use. But he’s standing outside a Sith fortress, on a Sith planet, where no brother should be, clearly on watch. Clearly _guarding_ someone, and the idea that any of the clones could be traitors, could be following the Sith, settles in Fives's stomach like rocks.

“Yeah, I know him,” Kix says after a long, long moment. “Those wings painted on his helmet—that’s Commander Thorn. And Rys is with him. But they're diplomatic corps guards. What are they doing _here_?”

“And who’s got the authority to use them?” Skywalker asks grimly. “That was a diplomatic ship, too. If the Sith Lord is hiding as a senator, it could explain why Dooku’s always one step ahead of us in this war.”

Fives swallows. “But why would clones _help_ them?” he asks helplessly.

Eyes narrowing, Skywalker stretches out a hand. Breathes in, expression twisting in concentration, and exhales, slowly. “I can't reach them,” he says after a moment. “Their thoughts are clouded and hard to read. I think they're being controlled. If it’s the Sith Lord, they probably didn’t stand a chance.”

Kix's breath is pained. “We have to take them with us,” he says. “If we get to the ship, we can't just leave them.”

“Of course we can't,” Skywalker says, so certain that it eases something in Fives's chest. “If we can knock them out, I think I can get rid of the control.”

“Thank you, sir,” Kix says quietly. “How do you want to do this?”

Skywalker hesitates, clearly undecided, and Fives sees his chance. “You just need them unconscious, right?” he says, slinging his blaster over his back. “Do you need to be right there next to them?”

There's a long pause as Skywalker studies him. “No,” he finally says. “As long as I'm nearby that should be enough. What are you thinking, Fives?”

“Distraction,” Fives says, and gives him a grin. “We don’t know who’s here, and they don’t know _we’re_ here, right? Or at least not the specifics. Commander Thorn won't be expecting another clone, so I can lead them away from the door and stun them, while you sneak in through the front door.”

“That,” Kix says with horror, “is a _terrible_ plan.”

But Skywalker grins. “I don’t know, I think I like it,” he says. “They’re not going to have any idea what to do with someone in Jedi robes and clone armor, and that might give you long enough to take them by surprise.”

“And if I stick close to the citadel afterwards, I should be fine until Thorn and Rys wake up,” Fives confirms. He grins back, offering Skywalker a salute, and says, “Wait for my signal, sir.”

“Good luck, Fives,” Skywalker says. “We’ll be back to pick you up as soon as we secure the ship.”

“Eyes open,” Kix says firmly, and pulls a bag of bacta patches out of his kit, slapping them into Fives's chest. “Don’t let Thorn shoot you, he’s got enough to deal with already.”

Fives rolls his eyes, but takes the patches. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll be sure to knock him out _gently_. _K'oyacyi_.”

“ _Ib'tuur jatne tuur ash'ad kyr'amur_ ,” Kix returns, and grips his wrist. Fives returns the grip, nods to Skywalker, and slithers down the edge of the rubble, landing lightly on moss-covered pavement. Pauses there, gauging how to pull this off, and spots a clear path through the rubble, leading right to a wing of the citadel where it extends out. Perfect cover, he thinks grimly pleased, and makes for it at a jog, keeping to the shadows whenever possible. General Windu's robe is an advantage in the darkness, hiding the white of his armor well enough that there’s less risk of being seen, and he pulls the hood up for a little more cover, moving carefully past the main entrance and then picking up a run. Thorn and Rys don’t seem to notice, and Fives ducks behind the building’s wing, then takes a breath.

This, he thinks wryly, is _definitely_ something Echo would yell at him for. After he stopped freaking out over the fact that Fives is apparently _Force-sensitive_ , at least.

Fives is probably freaking out over it a little. It’s hard to tell through the adrenaline.

Carefully, Fives tugs off his helmet, gives the Rishi eel painted on it a touch for luck, and sets his blaster to stun. Clears his throat, then pitches his voice high in panic and calls, “Commander Thorn! Commander Thorn, it’s got me, I can't—aargh!”

From around the corner, there’s a sound of alarm, then running steps. Fives takes two long steps back, raising his blaster, and as two figures in red and white round the wing, he grins.

“Hey there,” he says cheerfully, and gets two shots off before Thorn can even lift his comm. They both go down, and Fives quickly drags them back into the shadows a little further, settling them against the wall. Beyond it, there are quick footfalls, but he doesn’t try to duck out and join Kix and General Skywalker as they slip into the building. Just stays where he is, tucked up against the duracrete, until silence falls again, broken only by the rumble of thunder.

He wasn’t lying to General Skywalker. The Republic really does need every Jedi, and getting to that cruiser is the priority. He just…might not have told him every detail of his plan.

“I have no idea how to tell when you guys get un-brainwashed,” he tells Thorn and Rys as he pulls the binders off his belt. “So tying you up is the best I can do right now. I _really_ hope nothing eats you.”

They’ll most likely be fine. The edge of the citadel is almost eerily clear of shuffling corpses, and the vornskrs are only interested in Force-sensitive people.

People like Fives. It’s so _weird_.

“Sorry,” he mutters to the two Guards. “General Skywalker should be back soon. I've got other places to be, though.”

That itch beneath his skin is back, to the point that it’s all Fives can feel. Like there’s a string tugging him down, towards the edge of a ravine that cuts through the city like a scar. The same way he knows General Windu is alive, Fives knows he needs to get to the bottom of the canyon. The two pieces of certainty are related, too, he’s sure of it.

Windu _needs_ help, but Skywalker needs to get to the ship and get them all a way off this planet. Kix is more familiar with how Skywalker works, and beyond that, he’s a medic. If Skywalker gets hurt, he’s going to want Kix with him.

This is the logical choice. Fives can go get Windu and Cody while Skywalker steals the ship. Going alone is dangerous, but Fives can manage. He’s tired of being helpless.

General Windu told Skywalker to listen to his instincts. Well, this is Fives listening to his. Windu is in trouble, and Fives is going to help him.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, cliffhanger warning for this chapter. My personal rule is to warn for cliffhangers when a character is in obvious peril and it's a particularly abrupt transition, for reference.

Their squad’s bunkroom is strangely empty, and Dogma feels…unsettled.

He shouldn’t. It’s not that weird to have a trooper get transferred, either to a special track or just to another squad, and they’ve been down to four men before, Vector transferring in late. But—

There are still hours until classes start, and Dogma can't sleep knowing the bunk beside his is empty.

With a sigh, Dogma rolls over, giving up on sleep, and lets his bed slide out of the wall. There's no one else awake, no sound from beyond the room, and when he slips down the echo of his bare feet on the floor is unpleasantly loud. There's no curfew enforced, nothing saying he has to stay and stare at the top of his bunk until the morning, but Dogma still feels mildly guilty as he pulls on his uniform and his boots, slipping out of the bunkroom and into the quiet hallways.

There's no reason to be. If he’s tired tomorrow, it’s his own fault, and at least they’re off combat courses until they can get another cadet transferred to their squad. But the itch of unease stays.

Tup gets nightmares, and Dogma would always listen for them, would bang a fist against the wall to wake him up and then sit with him while he calmed down. He wonders, a little grimly, if Tup's just going to have to deal with them on his own now. General Ti probably has better things to do than wake up a thrashing trooper, and Dogma _knows_ that, wouldn’t ask her to. But still. Still.

He used to help, and now Tup's somewhere he can't.

It was always going to happen, Dogma knows. They’re soldiers, and they’ll follow orders, because it’s the right thing to do. No matter where they eventually get stationed, the chances of them ending up near each other were slim at best. But—they're friends, and Dogma can't sleep now. He’s just worried, that’s all.

Tup's a soldier, just like the rest of them. He’s steady and competent and smart, and he’ll make a good aide for the general. It’s just going to take some getting used to, that’s all.

Dogma thinks, again, of that glimpse of General Ti in the medbay, how she’d swept in and made the world go quiet around her. A real Jedi, he’d thought, awed and more than a little disbelieving. A Jedi coming to see _them_ , smiling at _them,_ worried about _them_. Some of their brothers tell stories about the Jedi, about them arriving on the battlefield and turning the tide singlehandedly, about them facing Grievous or Ventress as the enemy leaders cut through clones, stopping them in their tracks and driving them away. And—Dogma always knew it, always listened and understood, but he’d never _believed_ until that moment, seeing General Ti.

He hopes that whatever general he’s assigned to eventually, they’re as kind and wise as General Ti.

By one of the long, darkened windows, far across the facility from his too-quiet bunk, Dogma’s steps slow, stop. He pauses there, looking out over the oceans, and rests a hand against the transperisteel with a breath. Wonders, distantly, how many battles General Ti is called to, and whether Tup will go with her. Probably; there’s little use in picking a clone as an aide if they don’t actually act as an aide, and for all that General Ti has Commander Colt to guard her, more guards likely can’t hurt. But—

The odds are that Tup’s going to see far fewer fronts than the rest of them, and Dogma is deeply, achingly grateful for that. Tup has enough nightmares as it is. He doesn’t need anything to give them more fuel.

There’s at least that thought to cling to, even if Dogma’s going to be far away. Even if he might never see Tup again. The general and Commander Colt will keep him safe, and he won’t be in the thick of the fighting. He might even survive the war.

Dogma can’t ask for any more than that.

More at ease, he pushes away from the window—

“What are you doing out here?”

With a yelp, Dogma recoils, almost tripping over his own feet. Wrenches around, reaching for the blaster he isn’t carrying, and comes face to face with a scowling Jedi.

“General Kolar!” he says, heart in his throat, and snaps into a hasty salute. “Sorry, sir, I didn’t see you, I’m sorry—”

General Kolar waves that off with an impatient hand. He’s _not_ like General Ti, not in the least, though he’s equally impressive; unlike her gentle expression and calm composure, General Kolar has a grim expression, and his hair is messy, his robes battle-worn and his lightsaber a bright, obvious spot at his belt. He looms, even when he’s just standing there, and Dogma has to swallow as he takes a careful step back.

“Well?” General Kolar asks, and Dogma belatedly registers the question he was asked and tries not to wince.

“Sorry, sir,” he says. “I was just walking.” Glancing past General Kolar, he blinks, taking in the med-droid hovering at his shoulder, and feels a spike of alarm. “Are you hurt, sir? Do you need help?”

General Kolar doesn’t answer for a long moment, frowning at Dogma unreadably. Nervousness prickles down Dogma’s spine, and he wonders grimly if he’s managed to offend a general already, if he’s going to be demoted to maintenance for it, if—

“I’m fine,” General Kolar says finally. “Couldn’t sleep, Dogma?”

The shock of General Kolar remembering his name almost steals Dogma’s breath. There’s nothing about him that stands out right now. He doesn’t have long hair like Tup or a goatee like Chance or any of the tattoos that cadets usually get after they become troopers. But even with him looking just like all of the hundreds of thousands of clones on Kamino, General Kolar _recognized_ him.

It’s a little bewildering.

“Yes, sir,” he says, and wonders what he can add. Will the general think he’s pathetic if he tells him he’s missing Tup? Is that too much information? Does the general even care?

But he helped Tup, when Tup was nervous. Showed him a breathing exercise to keep him from panicking. He cares at least a little.

And, with a quiet sound of acknowledgement, General Kolar inclines his head. “Empty bunks,” he says, like he knows, then turns and looks down the hallway. Pauses, tilting his head, and the light catches on his horns, casts his features in shadow. Just for a moment, he looks dark and ominous, and—

When he smirks, it really doesn’t help.

“I’m investigating,” he says. “Go back to bed or come with me.”

“ _Investigating_?” Dogma repeats, startled, and glances at the droid again. Pauses, bewildered, but before he can ask any questions General Kolar starts moving, sweeping down the hall with long strides. The droid follows, and for half a second Dogma has no earthly idea what to do.

Then reason reasserts itself, and Dogma does what he’s trained for.

He follows the general.

At the edge of a long corridor leading down past the innermost cloning facilities, Kolar pauses, holding out a hand to stop Dogma. Cocking his head, he narrows his eyes, and says, “Two guards on the door. Can you throw?”

Throw? Like a thermal grenade? Dogma’s generally been under the impression that that isn’t the kind of thing you toss around near your comrades, but—Kolar is a general. He doesn’t ask, even if he wants to. “Yes, sir.”

With a grunt that’s more pleased than anything, General Kolar reaches for his belt, comes up with a flash-bang grenade, and tosses it at Dogma. Dogma catches it, still entirely bewildered, and glances around the corner to see—

Clones. Clones, guarding the cloning chambers, because this is Kamino and there aren’t any enemies here. Just brothers. Brothers General Kolar wants him to _attack_.

“Thirty seconds, then throw,” General Kolar says, and slips into the shadows along the wall. Instantly, he seems to vanish; Dogma can’t pick out so much as a hint of his figure, a trace of movement, even though he looks. Then there’s no one left to ask questions to except the droid, even if Dogma was going to. And…he isn’t. General Kolar gave him an order, and he must have a reason for it.

Attacking brothers sits wrong, though, tight like a curl of horror in Dogma’s gut.

“Twenty-seven seconds have passed,” the droid says, cocking its head, and Dogma mutters a curse, scrambling to find the detonator on the grenade. He pushes it, feels the click, then leans just far enough around the corner to lob it hard down the hallway. It’s the exact movement that’s been drilled into them in training, but—

Somehow, Dogma’s pretty sure that this isn’t what their trainers intended them to do with the information.

The clang of the grenade hitting the ground is far too loud in the silent hall, makes both clones jerk around, their armor bright white and unmarked in the light. Dogma wrenches back behind cover just as one shouts—

There's a click, a resounding _boom_ , a flash of light so bright Dogma can see it through closed eyes, even around the corner. He jerks back, wanting to make sure they're still alive, that it wasn’t some kind of thermal detonator by mistake, that he didn’t get the general—

Eyes closed, Kolar spins out of the shadows, sidestepping one clone like it’s sheer instinct. Like water, he slips around them as they reel, catches a hand going for a comm, and grabs a helmet, hauling it up and off. Grabs skin, then turns, seizing a blaster by the barrel as it swings for him. Dogma throws himself forward on instinct, takes two running steps and then drops, sweeping the second clone’s legs out from under him as he tries to aim with blinded eyes. Kolar grunts, pleased, and drops the first, then follows the second down, hauling his helmet off as well. One hand on his forehead, a sharp huff, and the cadet’s eyes roll back in his head. He slumps, as still as the other one, and Dogma breathes in.

 _What did you do to them_ , he wants to ask, but he keeps his mouth shut. There must be a reason. Kolar is a _general_.

“Someone heard that,” Kolar says, rising to his feet. He turns to the door, punching in a code, and huffs when it clicks open. “AZI-3452—” Grimacing, he breaks off, then asks, “Can I give you a nickname?”

“If you want, General,” the droid says, sounding bemused.

Kolar nods shortly. “AZI-3,” he says. “You know where to look?”

The droid buzzes through the door, then straight towards one of the cloning pods. “From here I can ascertain whether all of the clones bear chips, and when in the cloning process they were implanted,” it says.

Kolar inclines his head. “Hide if someone comes. I’ll return shortly,” he says, and closes the door on the droid. Leaning down, he grabs one of the unconscious troopers, hauling him up over his shoulder, and nods at the other. “Get him.”

Silently, Dogma does as he’s told, heaving the trooper up as best he can. He’s not as strong as a Zabrak, and the weight makes him stagger, but he follows General Kolar down the hall to a maintenance closet and helps him secure both clones there, still utterly bewildered as to what’s happening.

Kolar picks up the spent flash-bang grenade, then jerks his head at Dogma and starts walking, long strides eating up the ground. Dogma has to hurry to keep up, and just as he hears voices, they turn down another hall, toward the center of the complex.

“Sir?” Dogma asks carefully, not wanting to offend, not wanting to seem like he’s not following orders. Just—alarmed. General Kolar shouldn’t need to sneak a droid into the Embryo Chamber when the Republic is technically the client here. He should just be able to ask and go right in.

“Ventress attacked,” Kolar says without looking back. “We held her off, but she escaped in this direction.”

That’s. That’s a lie, Dogma thinks, stunned. General Kolar is going to lie about what he was doing in the Embryo Chamber, and he wants Dogma to lie, too. Uncertain, Dogma hesitates, but—

When General Kolar rounds the corner, Dogma picks up his pace and follows.

Some sense has Kolar lifting his head, his eyes narrowing. He reaches for Dogma, grabbing his arm and hauling him sideways, behind a column, just as a door opens further down the hall.

“—can’t imagine what that was,” General Ti says, her voice concerned.

“The guards are checking in, but we’re still waiting on the men guarding the Embryo Room,” Commander Colt reports. “General, you should get somewhere safe.”

“Nonsense,” General Ti says calmly. “Nala Se, may we escort you to a more secure location?”

“Do you think it’s an attack?” Nala Se asks, passing them in General Ti’s wake.

General Ti inclines her head. “Given the recent assault on the Rishi station, it’s unlikely to be anything else. This way, please.”

“Cadet, you go with the general,” Colt says, and a moment later Tup murmurs an agreement. Dogma stills, looking out past Kolar’s concealing figure to where Tup is falling in on General Ti’s other side. His hair is pulled up in a neat bun again, all except for one long lock that falls past his shoulder, intricately braided and strung with beads.

Nala Se makes a soft sound of impatience. “Surely this is unnecessary, Master Ti.”

“You would be a very valuable target for the Separatists, I'm afraid,” General Ti says, perfectly calm. “Please, allow us to see you to somewhere further from the incident.”

“Very well.” Nala Se follows General Ti and Tup around the corner as Colt breaks off, passing their hiding place.

He glances sideways, looking right at them, and then keeps going, steps quick.

“Good.” General Kolar pushes up, then steps out from behind the column, making for the door of Nala Se’s office immediately. “Shaak's better at talking,” he tells Dogma, like _that’s_ the part of this that needs to be explained.

“I—she’s really good at it, sir,” Dogma agrees a bit helplessly. He looks back, in the direction Colt disappeared, and—that was definitely an approving look, so both generals must be in on this. Probably.

Kolar grunts, then draws the hilt of his lightsaber from his belt. With a hiss, the blue blade ignites, and Dogma jerks back, startled. “ _Sir_?” he demands, but Kolar just eyes Nala Se’s office door for a long moment, then stabs the blade forward. It burns through the metal in an instant, and Kolar drags the blade up, around in a circle, then pulls back. With one booted foot, he kicks in the cut piece of door, then ducks through, careful of his robes.

Dogma follows, because at this point there's really nothing else to do.

For a moment, General Kolar stands in the middle of the neat office, looking around with a frown. Then, quick, he crosses to the main computer terminal and leans over it, bringing it to life with a few touches. “That traitor would come in handy right now,” he mutters, frowning at it, but pulls something from a pocket and inserts it into one of the slots.

“Traitor, sir?” Dogma asks carefully, looking around. The holo terminal on the wall is off, but he checks it anyway, then looks for anything that might stand out. It’s hard when he’s not sure what the point of being in here even _is_. Clearly General Kolar is investigating Nala Se, but—why?

Dogma doesn’t ask.

“Former Jedi Quinlan Vos,” General Kolar says distastefully. “Darth Tyranus’s new apprentice. He has psychometry.”

A traitor, Dogma thinks, feeling ill. The Jedi aren’t supposed to be traitors. They're the ones leading the fighting. But—clearly they don’t like traitors, either, if General Kolar’s tone means anything. “Oh,” he says, and then belatedly, “Thank you, sir.”

Kolar grunts, frowning at the computer terminal. He doesn’t answer, and after a moment Dogma gives up on looking for anything and slips around behind him to look. “Are you slicing it, sir?”

Quietly, Kolar scoffs. “I don’t need to,” he says. “Nala Se knows her passwords, so I do, too.”

Right. Because Jedi can read minds. Dogma feels a flicker of awe, a touch of the thought that he would hate to be on the Separatist side of things, when the Republic has all the Jedi, and Jedi can just…reach into someone’s head and pull out the correct information.

File after file of top-secret documents load themselves onto Kolar’s chip, and he smirks faintly, then disengages it and tucks it up his sleeve. Looks around the neat office, and then says, “Ventress has a temper.”

“Sir?” Dogma asks, confused.

Kolar raises a hand, eyes narrowing. All around the room, things shake, then fling themselves off shelves, leap out of drawers. In an instant, the office is a chaotic tangle of flimsiplast and stuffing from one of the couches and torn scraps of cloth that used to cover the windows. Then, deliberate, General Kolar ignites his lightsaber again, and slashes down, one swift strike that cuts through the computer terminal and the desk beneath it in a spray of sparks.

“Good enough,” he says, satisfied, and keeps the lightsaber in hand, blade lit. “This way.”

Dazed, Dogma follows him out through the hole he made, then down the halls at a quick pace. Back towards the Embryo Chamber, Dogma realizes, and hides a grimace when he sees Commander Havoc and a whole squad there.

“General Kolar!” Havoc says, saluting. “You heard, sir?”

“It’s Ventress,” Kolar says shortly. “I can feel her.”

Havoc stiffens, then turns and waves his troopers quickly towards them. “Any idea where she is, sir?”

“Probably headed for the Genetic Records Hall,” Kolar says grimly. “She got the guards here?”

“Yes, sir,” Havoc says more quietly. “Maybe took them prisoner. We haven’t found any trace of them.”

“I’ll look.” Kolar nods to him, and Havoc lets out a breath.

“Thanks, sir. They're just cadets. Didn’t even have time to comm out.”

Kolar grips his shoulder for a moment, silent, and Havoc smiles crookedly. Then he turns, hauling his helmet back on, and calls, “Genetic Records Hall, now. Double-time, let’s go!”

No one even takes a second look at Dogma, and he breathes out, trying not to let his relief show.

With a quiet snort that says he caught it nevertheless, General Kolar opens the Embryo Chamber door, then leans in. “AZI-3,” he says, and a moment later the droid buzzes out to hover in the hall with them.

“General,” it says. “I've calculated the odds of every clone after the first batch having a chip to be close to one hundred percent. They are being implanted early in the cloning process.”

“Chip?” Dogma asks, startled.

AZI-3 looks at him. “A biological control chip,” it says. “I believe it is a danger to my patients, which I why I am assisting.”

“Thanks,” Kolar says, frowning. “That’s too many to remove.”

“Most likely,” the droid agrees.

Kolar grunts. “Shaak will find you in the morning,” he tells it. “Transfer what you found to the Jedi High Council. And this, too.” He hands over the chip, and the droid takes it carefully.

“I will,” it agrees. “Good night, General Kolar.”

Dogma watches it leave, feeling cold. Control chips in the clones, in the whole _army_ , and no way to get all of them out. But it’s the Kaminoans putting them there, and surely they wouldn’t—

Except they decommission clones all the time. They don’t care. The clones are just property to them.

A hand settles on his shoulder, and General Kolar looks at him, studying his face for a long moment. Then, gently, he squeezes, before he lets go again. “Tup's fine,” he says. “Help me with these clones and we’ll meet Shaak in her quarters so you can see.”

Dogma wants to say he’s fine, wants to tell General Kolar that there’s no need to invite him into another general’s personal rooms, but—

He wants to see Tup. That one glimpse of him just worried him more.

“Thank you, sir,” he says quietly.

Kolar nods once. “Learn to ask more questions,” he says, and goes to rescue the guards from the maintenance closet he stuffed them in.

Dogma has absolutely no idea what to do with any of this, but—

He helps, because he’s already in this deep and he might as well.

“ _Ow_ ,” Cody hisses before he even opens his eyes, the bright-sharp ache of too many bruises radiating through his bones. He lies where he is for a moment, trying to force sluggish thoughts into motion, trying to focus, but everything hurts. It’s dark, too, dark and hot and humid, and he wants to close his eyes and go right back to a painless sleep.

Eyes, he thinks. There's something there. Something he needs to think of. Something he needs to _remember_.

He rolls over, takes a breath, gets an arm underneath himself. It takes a moment, takes too much effort, but he pushes up onto his elbows and reaches out into the darkness, trying to feel for what’s around him.

His fingers brush cold, twisted metal, and all at once his vision clears.

With a gasp Cody rolls to his feet, Sith warblade clutched in one hand, heart pounding in his throat. Under his feet, the pebbled surface shifts, rhythmic and slow, and a strange blue glow fills the air, diffuse and soft. It pulses like a heartbeat, like the lightning that Cody can't see, with long, slow bursts of light that throw eerie shadows over his surroundings and then fade to almost nothing before they return.

There's absolutely no sound, and Cody turns, careful on the shifting surface. He can see trees curling up past him, thick with vines and tangled branches, but there’s no now-familiar glow of fungus down here. No rumble of thunder, either, and after two days of it it’s almost eerie in its absence.

No sign of other life, but something keeps Cody's mouth shut, keeps him from calling for Mace even though it’s the only thought in his head. Qui-Gon threw him off the cliff, and Mace jumped after him, caught him—

And then there was something. Something waiting. Something that turned its head and opened its eyes and _looked_ at them.

Cody breathes, steps carefully. In his hand the warblade is a heavier weight than it was before, but the increase is almost comforting. The blade itself catches the pulses of blue and shines in ripples, soft and sinister, but Cody tightens his grip on the hilt and keeps moving.

One step, another. Nothing moves, and the silence prickles across his skin.

They fell into a ravine, and it was too dark to see the bottom. Cody wonders how far down they are, whether this is actually part of the city or whether it’s just something they built over and ignored. Wonders if Qui-Gon planned to get them both down here, or if it was a fate meant for Cody that Mace wasn’t supposed to be part of.

If it’s the latter, clearly Qui-Gon doesn’t know Mace as well as he thinks he does. Even if Cody was a complete stranger, there's no way Mace wouldn’t have tried to save him.

There's some satisfaction to be had in that, thin and bare as it is. Cody sets his jaw, strains his senses, but if Qui-Gon followed them down there's no way to tell. Just silence, the oppressive heat, and the strange pulses of blue light.

Right now, Cody thinks wryly, it would really help to have a Jedi tapped into his thoughts. If he knew where Mace was, if he knew whether or not he was in trouble—

The sword reflects something dark within the ghostly blue, and Cody freezes.

A spine. A spine, growing up like a stalagmite from the surface he’s standing on, but there’s no missing the pattern of scales, the sharp edge of the stone. And then, just a bit further on, another, each one almost Cody's height.

The ground rises, holds, sinks.

Breaths, Cody thinks, grim horror rising. He’s standing on something that’s breathing. Something _huge_. Something that saw him and Mace fall, opened one slitted eye, and stayed where it was.

Somehow, that’s worse than it immediately turning to eat them.

Whatever creature is under his feet, though, it hasn’t reacted to his movements yet, and Cody can't exactly levitate to keep from walking on it. Steeling himself, he keeps moving, careful with his weight as he tracks the pulses of blue up the creature’s body. The shimmers across the blade of his sword get brighter, and Cody sweeps a careful look around, scanning for any other bodies. Looking for Mace, trying to spot him, but there’s no sign. Just a vast creature breathing in the darkness, perfectly silent.

The pulses of blue are coming from huge pods, set into the thing’s body. Cody skirts the first one, wary, but it looks like a blister against pebbled skin, deep and ghostly blue but otherwise unalarming. The pulses are regular, even, and he wonders if it’s an automatic thing, some biological regulatory system working. He doesn’t remember seeing it as they fell, though, and something about it raises all the hairs on the back of his neck.

Mace couldn’t have fallen too far from him. They landed in almost the same spot, if Cody remembers right, and he must have rolled a bit, but—not this far. Maybe he went for help, but that thought doesn’t feel right, either. Mace wouldn’t have simply left him. Cody _knows_ that.

The sword in his hand is a heavy weight, foreboding.

Somewhere in the darkness above him, he thinks he can see a carved stone face, looming and craggy. The hood concealing it and the hilt of a vast sword clutched in its hands make Cody think _Sith_ with automatic distaste, and he grimaces, passing under it with careful steps. More spines march up towards a third blister of blue light, and Cody skirts them, wondering how big the beast can possibly be—

There’s figure at his feet. A man, sprawled across the creature’s back and perfectly, deathly still. The next pulse of blue falls away to nothing, then rises again, and Cody's breath jars in his chest like he’s been kicked.

“ _Mace_ ,” he says, too loud, too harsh in the silence, but Mace doesn’t move.


	24. Chapter 24

He’s still breathing.

Cody strips off his gloves, finds a pulse as well, beating slow in Mace's throat. It’s not the reassurance it could be; Cody's no medic, but it feels sluggish, too light and fast, and he hisses out a breath through his teeth, rolls Mace over as carefully as he can. There are no wounds that he can see, nothing that should leave Mace unconscious—he’s not even bruised from their landing.

The blue light rises, falls to darkness, rises again. The shadows it casts are strange and shifting, sickly against Mace's skin.

“Shouldn’t this be happening the other way around?” Cody asks him, and his own voice is grating in his ears, too loud against the hush, but he doesn’t let it stop him. “I’m pretty sure you Jedi are supposed to be sturdier than a clone.”

No reaction, and Cody breathes out, grits his teeth. The animal under them is still, unmoving, but—for how long? What are the odds that it will stay that way? Cody doesn’t trust it, doesn’t trust Qui-Gon’s absence either. He’s twice already made himself a problem at inconvenient times, and Cody's not willing to throw himself against a lightsaber without at least a blaster to give him some range.

This is the second time Mace has saved him while getting hurt, too. First during the crash, when he kept them all from splattering themselves across the planet’s surface, and then again while Cody was falling, because he definitely should have died then. Cody's used to Jedi saving his life, after so long serving with Obi-Wan, but—

This is different. Even if he can't put his finger on _how_.

“Someday,” he tells Mace, carefully getting an arm under his shoulders and levering him up, “I'm going to demand a real honeymoon, to make up for all of this. Somewhere _dry_. Maybe a desert planet. Tatooine is looking pretty nice right now.”

It’s only a slight exaggeration, really.

With a grunt, he heaves Mace up and over his shoulder, bracing his weight. Mace is too tall for anything else, and even this is awkward, but Cody shifts him over his shoulders as best he can, trying to ignore the strange, clammy coolness of his skin, all too obvious against the humid air. It’s worrying, but so is _everything_ right now, and Cody wants to get the hell off whatever they're standing on before it wakes up again.

The getting off is going to be a problem all its own, with no Jedi to bounce them around like gravity doesn’t matter. Given the beast’s size, they’re probably pretty high up, and Cody doesn’t want to just jump down and hope for the best, not when he’s carrying Mace. Still, the looming statue at least gives him an idea of where the wall of the ravine is, so he makes for it, each footfall careful.

Thinking about how damned _big_ the monster they landed on is doesn’t help anyone, so Cody pushes the thought away and focuses on the looming figure of some ancient Sith. Much more pleasant, he thinks wryly, and pauses beneath it, looking it up and down. Thick tendrils trail past it, and Cody can't tell whether they're roots or vines, but they're thick and sturdy, and when he tugs on one it doesn’t give way.

“Good enough,” he mutters, and carefully eases Mace down, hauling a limp arm over his shoulders and hooking an arm around his waist. Wrapping one of the roots around his arm, Cody leans over the side of the beast’s body, waiting for a pulse of blue light to brighten enough for him to see the ground, and gets a half-second glimpse of green-covered stone walls, the mossy feet of the statue. The walls of the ravine are craggy, shadowed, but Cody thinks he catches a glimpse of a darker piece of space, right behind the statue. A tunnel, hopefully, that will lead back to the surface. Or, really, anywhere that isn't here. Cody's not feeling over picky, given the lack of choices.

“Sorry about this,” he says to Mace. “We can't all be Jedi.” Then, with a grimace, he jumps, feeling the half-second lurch of the drop before the vine catches. It swings them forward, and Cody twists, putting his body between Mace and the wall as they hit, then bounce. The impact jars the breath out of his lungs, and he loses his grip on the root, sending them tumbling down to land in the thick moss with a grunt.

For a long moment, Cody lies where he is, every bruise aching, and wonders what the heck he ever did to deserve this planet.

Then, with a groan, he levers himself up, rolls onto his knees and checks Mace, fingertips skimming cool skin in the moment of darkness between the pulsing lights. Gets a hand on his pulse, feeling for it—

It rises as the light falls. Beats, hard, for half an instant before the light comes back, and then it fades to something thready and slow again.

For a second, Cody just stares. Can't quite trust himself, given his lack of medical training, but—it comes again, the light falling and the rate of Mace's heartbeat rising, like a bird trying to take flight, and a slow, cold realization settles into Cody's bones.

This isn't Mace _hurt_ , this is Mace being kept unconscious. This is Mace's life draining as the light grows, and Cody _needs_ to get him away from it.

At his side, safe in its sheath, the warblade grows heavier, then lighter, echoing the blue glow.

“Heck,” Cody mutters, and gets Mace up over his shoulders again, hooking one arm around his knees so that he can have the other mostly free to feel his way along the wall. It’s wet, rivulets of water trickling down the sheer stone, and Cody glances up, wondering if that means it’s raining up above. He can't see the sky, even with the atmosphere’s ever-present lightning, which probably means there’s some kind of canopy blocking it out. Keeping the creature dry, more or less, and Cody grimaces, picking his way towards the statue’s base.

It’s carved right into the wall, the natural drape of the stone merging into robes, a jut of rock becoming a sword. A pool of water has gathered in the moss around its feet, and the splash of Cody's boots is loud enough to make him wince, but he wades through it, fingers tracing the stone, until suddenly there’s no stone at all, just a dark gap behind the edge of the Sith's robes.

In a flicker of diffuse blue light, Cody can just make out the top of the doorway, low enough that he’ll have to duck to get through it. Narrow, too; he turns sideways to fit, not minding the squeeze when it means the creature won't be able to follow them. Then he’s out of the light entirely, and there's only darkness, velvety and complete.

Cody pauses, wishing futilely for his helmet, and then carefully shifts Mace enough to reach for his belt. Obi-Wan would have dropped his lightsaber when he dove to grab Cody, but—

As Cody was hoping, Mace's is neatly clipped to his belt, and Cody breathes a sigh of relief for all of two seconds before he remembers that Mace is the only one who can turn the damned thing on.

With a groan, Cody drops his hand. “So either I get the Jedi who can't keep his connector clips working for more than ten minutes, or I get the paranoid Jedi who won't let other people use his stuff,” he tells Mace. “Great. Thanks. Fumbling along blind it is.”

There’s no response. Of course there isn't.

Muttering a curse on the planet as a whole, Cody gets a hand on the wall, taking a careful step forward. There’s no telling directions down here, and if he comes to an intersection he’s going to have to pick a turn by chance, but at the very least the floor feels smooth, and nothing grabs him as he takes careful, deliberate steps into the darkness.

He’s counted a hundred and seven steps before Mace turns his head against his arm, breath heavy and pained.

“Mace?” Cody asks, stopping short. He debates crouching down, settling Mace on the floor, but if Mace isn't waking up, he doesn’t want to have to heave him up and down for no reason. “You awake?”

There's a long, long pause, so long Cody almost thinks he imagined the movement, but then Mace's hand touches his elbow, grips. “I can't tell,” Mace says finally, and Cody snorts, carefully crouching down. He can feel Mace moving, and together they get him down, sitting upright against the wall. Keeps a hand on his arm, even as he pulls back, because it’s as black as pitch in the tunnel and he’d rather not fumble around more than he absolutely has to.

“I don’t want to alarm you,” Cody says, “but there’s a really big thing back at the bottom of the ravine, and I think it’s doing something to you.”

Mace snorts. “Being stuck in Kaas City has already alarmed me plenty,” he says dryly. Then he pauses, like he’s gathering his thoughts, and asks, “Looks like a giant lizard? Purple skin, with yellow blister traps on its back?”

Cody frowns. “Blue blisters,” he says. “And I have no idea if it was purple. Color’s hard to pick out down here. You seemed like you were about to stop breathing, so I got us into a tunnel and away from it.”

There's a long moment of grim silence, and then Mace lets out a breath. “A tunnel,” he repeats. A hand touches Cody's shoulder, skimming armor, and rises until it’s almost touching Cody's skin. Then, abruptly, Mace pulls away, and says, “Keep moving. Get to the surface. I’ll catch up when I can.”

Cody blinks, taken aback. “I'm not leaving you down here,” he says with a frown. “You were unconscious three minutes ago, there's no way I'm going to make you drag yourself all the way back to the surface alone.”

It takes Mace a long minute to move, another minute to answer. When it finally comes, his voice is resigned. “You're not going to want me with you,” he says grimly. “Cody, you need to go.”

“What?” Cody pulls back, and in the darkness he can't see Mace's face, but—he doesn’t need to in order to know it’s a stupid idea. “Not a chance.”

“It’s dark?” Mace asks, and—that intonation is definitely a question, which makes no sense at all.

“As dark as a Hutt’s heart,” Cody confirms, his own heart sinking. That’s…probably not good.

He can hear the shift of cloth as Mace tips his head back against the wall. “It looks like Haruun Kal to me,” he says quietly. “Like the jungles there, at sunrise.”

He’s seeing things. Cody weighs the impact of those words for a moment, then breathes out, and says, “Is it this place? That thing back there?”

“Leviathans trap Force-sensitives in visions, to make them easy prey,” Mace says. “And drain the life from them by proximity, making the yellow blister traps on their backs turn blue.”

That’s definitely what happened back there, and just as definitely bad news. Cody pulls a face, scrubs a hand across his eyes. “How close a proximity?”

In the darkness, Mace’s breath is low, quiet, rueful. “Cody, before the war started, it had been over a thousand years since the last Sith was seen. I’ve read old Jedi chronicles, but hardly all of them.”

Fair enough, Cody supposes. It’s probably too much to ask for anyone to know all of the details of all the old Sith monsters. “Alchemically engineered?” he asks, resigned.

“I assume so, but no one is certain.” There’s a pause, tense, and then a slow exhale. “If I tell you Darth Maul is standing over your shoulder…”

Cody twitches before he can help himself, turns. There’s no point trying to peer through the darkness, so in one quick motion he unsheathes the warblade, lashes out.

Only empty air meets the edge, and there’s no sound.

“I’d say he’s even slower than normal,” Cody says, and carefully resheathes the blade. “This atmosphere is perfect for a dramatic entrance, but he missed his cue.”

Mace’s breath is almost humor, but tangled with tension around the edges. He doesn’t answer.

Cody closes his eyes, trying to think of some way out of this, something to make it easier. “Can you see me?” he asks quietly.

Mace is silent for a long stretch of seconds. “When I touch you,” he says. “Otherwise you look…unlike yourself.”

Like an enemy, Cody concludes. Jedi might not be soldiers the way clones are, but—a trained fighter’s instincts are hard to crush, and Mace must be holding himself back so carefully to keep from reacting. With a grimace, he reaches out, finding Mace’s shoulder in the dark, following it down to his hand, and curls his fingers around Mace’s, hoping that’s enough to ground him.

Ignores, as he does, the flicker of something unnamable that rises, wearily set and quietly warm in equal measure.

Mace doesn’t react immediately, takes a breath that’s slow, careful, and then says, “My lightsaber should help you see.”

“I was waiting for you to wake up to turn it on,” Cody confirms, and raises a brow. “You having it but being unconscious is about as useful as Obi-Wan dropping his all over the place.”

“That,” Mace says, “is an insult I’m not sure I should let pass.” Even so, something cool bumps Cody’s free hand, and he twitches, grabs it. The hilt of the lightsaber settles in his palm, then activates in a wash of violet, illuminating the narrow passage. The light of it catches on the planes of Mace’s face, in his dark eyes as they rest on Cody, very carefully looking nowhere else.

“That bad?” Cody asks quietly.

Mace raises a brow right back at him. “I’m not sure if I prefer the sight of Haruun Kal or the slaughter of Ima-Gun Di and his men,” he says, “But either way, you seem like a better choice.”

“Thanks,” Cody says dryly. “I think.” He pulls his gaze from Mace, looking ahead of them, and asks, “In what you _do_ know about these things, was there any mention of why it didn’t immediately try to eat us?”

Carefully, Mace pushes to his feet, and Cody rises with him, keeping a hold on his hand. “They hibernate,” Mace says after a moment. “For thousands of years, sometimes, until they’re disturbed. This one is likely still waking up, and we’re close enough that it doesn’t need to chase us to drain us.” Then he pauses, looking Cody over, and asks, “Do you feel it?”

Cody shakes his head. “I haven’t since I woke up,” he says, then pauses. Reconsiders, and says slowly, “No, since right after. It hurt, like I was bruised, but it went away.”

More specifically, it went away when he found his sword, and the blade kept getting heavier, like it was fighting something. Kept pushing something back, and Cody has a good idea what.

“The warblade,” he says, startled. “It’s holding the leviathan off?”

Mace inclines his head. “It’s logical,” he says. “If the Sith whose tomb you robbed knew how to create leviathans, he would want a way to control them. Swords and amulets tend to be the obvious choice, for Sith.”

“Robbed is a strong word,” Cody mutters in halfhearted protest, but eyes the sword for a moment. “If you used it—”

But Mace is already shaking his head. “I wouldn’t be able to,” he says. “Vaapad touches the Dark Side, but does not embrace it. That sword would devour me when I refused to give into it.”

 _Devour_ sounds particularly nasty, used like that. Cody makes a note to keep the warblade as far from Mace as possible from now on. “Then we’ll just have to hope it doesn’t wake up and come looking for dinner. Good to walk?”

“I suppose we’ll find out.” Mace turns, glancing back down the tunnel toward the sleeping leviathan, then deliberately turns back to the front. There are lines in his face that Cody doesn’t like, deeper than they should be. When Cody tries to pass his lightsaber back, though, he shakes his head. “Keep it. I might react badly to something.”

Given a Jedi's abilities, there's still that chance, lightsaber or no. Cody grimaces, tightening his grip on Mace's hand, and asks, “Anything I can do to help?”

Mace pauses, just long enough for Cody to notice, and then shakes his head again. “Distance from it is all I need,” he says. “I couldn’t feel its existence from the surface, so that should be sufficient.”

Easier said than done, Cody thinks wryly, eyeing the curve of the tunnel. It bends sharply, probably cutting along beside the sleeping creature rather than away from it, and Cody has no idea how to actually find their way out, given the ravine’s depth.

Still, the only way to work it out is to keep moving, and that’s going to have to be enough for now. He glances up at Mace's expression, only to find he has his eyes closed. His breath is carefully even, in a way that means it would be ragged if he had an ounce less control. Carefully, Cody tightens his grip on his hand, and asks, “Haruun Kal?”

“Hurikaine,” Mace says, and his features are tight. “And the natives there. I…broke one of them, once.”

Hurikaine isn't a planet the Separatists have shown any interest in, and Cody's never been there, doesn’t even know what one of the natives would look like. But— “You killed someone?”

“Shattered,” Mace corrects, and opens his eyes briefly, looking at Cody. “I put them back together afterwards, but…”

That’s not what he’s seeing right now. And, if the leviathan is using so many images from his past, it’s likely tapped right into his head. Cody doesn’t like that thought at all. “You fixed them in reality,” he says. “Whatever you're seeing now doesn’t matter.”

“I'm aware.” The line of Mace's mouth is tight, and Cody tugs him forward a little faster, minding his steps on the rough floor.

“Focus on me?” he offers, the only thing he can think of, but—

Mace's expression goes grimmer, if anything. He nods, short, and doesn’t answer.

There’s enough for Cody to worry about. Mace will say something if he needs help, Cody decides, and keeps moving, as quickly as he dares through the darkness.

Two blocks from the citadel, a wide staircase of black stone leads down into the earth.

Fives pauses at the top of it, caught off guard by the sheer, looming _malevolence_ that rises, and squints down into the darkness like that will help him see. There’s no light, and the ravine itself is so deep that there's no way to tell where the bottom is. The brief flares of lightning don’t illuminate more than a few yards down, and then it’s all black as pitch.

“Kriff,” Fives mutters, but he switches his helmet lights on, shoulders his blaster, and takes the first step down off the overgrown street.

As soon as his boot hits black stone, torches kindle. In a dizzying sweep, flames catch like a spark leaping down the ravine’s walls, and a flood of eerie red light washes across the steps, leading the way down into the depths.

For a long moment, Fives stays frozen precisely where he is, one foot on solid ground and one on the stairs, staring. Then, carefully, he swallows, casting a glance from the staircase to the looming citadel.

“Well, _that’s_ not creepy at all,” he says out loud, then steels himself and keeps moving, starting down the steps carefully. They’re not quite slick, but it feels like they could be, and whatever they're carved out of seems to swallow the light. Fives's helmet lights cast strange, misleading shadows, and after the first flight he gives up and just turns them off, the torchlight at least more reliable.

He’s still being drawn downward. There's a pull, an ache like the pull of a half-healed wound, and Fives sets his jaw and moves through it, steady, swift as he descends. The staircase stretches on, long and steep, but he’s not about to stop, not about to go back.

Echo would kill him for this in a heartbeat. But then, Echo would have stuck with General Skywalker and not gone running off on his own, because he’s the reasonable one. He gets the regs, gets the rules, understands why they need to be followed.

Fives has never bothered, because as long as they’re headed for the right destination, how they get there doesn’t matter nearly as much.

“Guess we have that in common, Cutup,” he says quietly, even though Cutup’s never going to hear it. Cutup died, and Fives felt it, a brief flare of panic that cut off too soon, terror and horror and—

Nothing. Nothing but emptiness, and Fives had thought it was his own reaction, coupled with the relief of Commander Cody and Captain Rex appearing. But now, thinking about it, knowing that Jedi can feel things and that _Fives_ can feel things, it’s obvious. That was Cutup, not him. Cutup’s last moments as the eel grabbed him, and Fives's breath shakes as it slides out but he doesn’t falter.

When Droidbait got shot, he had a bad feeling. The alert came in a moment later, and that edge of unease got lost in the rush, but he still felt it. He doesn’t know if he felt Hevy’s death, because his own reaction was already so strong. Doesn’t know if he missed Hevy’s fear, and—he wants to know, even if he doesn’t. Morbidly, grimly, he wants to be able to hold onto that, onto _Hevy_ , even if the last seconds were nothing but pain and fear.

They would be determined, too, though. Hevy was the bravest of all of them.

Fives knows what death feels like, though. Even if he didn’t _know_ that he knew, he always did, and what he felt when General Windu disappeared wasn’t anything close. Just absence, someone taking him away, and that means Fives just needs to find him and get him back. After all, General Windu probably knows that he’s Force-sensitive, and he was letting Fives ask questions, letting him listen, letting him learn. Not like any of the trainers back on Kamino, but in a kinder way, careful and steady.

Fives had thought it was cool when a Jedi was willing to share secrets with a clone. Knowing that it was the Jedi sharing secrets with someone who could potentially be a Jedi, too? That changes everything.

Fives probably isn't going to end up a Jedi. He’s heard Skywalker talk about an age limit, and he’s well over that, probably. But he can _learn_ , at the very least, and that’s more than enough for him.

Anything that can help him keep people alive, keep _Echo_ alive is good, after all. He can't be the only member of Domino Squad left. Fives doesn’t think he could bear it.

More than that, though, General Windu is married to a brother. That makes him family by Mandalorian standards, and Fives would go after him just for that. Commander Cody's a tough vod to get to know, and he’s kind of intimidating, but Fives remembers him and Windu joking together, deadpan and dry but still amused. It wasn’t exactly sweet, because Commander Cody was clearly taking delight in Fives's reactions, but—maybe it was the next best thing.

A flicker of light against shadows that don’t move like they should has Fives pausing on the next wide landing. He glances back up towards the surface, then at the remaining steps, and—he’s probably about halfway down, more or less, though it’s hard to tell when he only has the line of torches set into the wall to go by. There’s a door, too, though, a dark opening in the stone that Fives can't see into, it’s so dark. But—

Some instinct he can't name has Fives stepping close, putting his hand on the frame. He reaches out, looking for a solid door, but only finds empty air.

With a curl of flame, a torch lights within the darkness, then another. Spreading, leading into the side of the ravine, a path unspools, the long tunnel lit with patches of brilliance.

Fives hesitates, looking from the staircase to the tunnels. “What, do you want me to flip a coin?” he mutters. “You’re both equally creepy, okay, this sucks.”

There’s no response. Just silence, darkness, the muted rumble of thunder from above.

With a groan, Fives flips his helmet lights on again. “And I choose…menacing tunnel, because what’s better than tight quarters and monsters?”

Taking a step into the opening, he glances around, then starts moving carefully, wary of echoes. Wary of what _Echo_ is definitely going to say about him lying-not-lying to his general and running off on his own, but—

He needs to. Like knowing they needed to get out of the station, half an instant after Droidbait died, and this time Fives _knows_ he should listen to his instincts. There’s a steady, grim certainty that he’s doing the right thing, the right thing for all of them, and that’s good enough for him.

Ahead of him, blue light flickers into being, soft and warm, and Fives freezes. His heart in his throat, he lifts his blaster, flicking off the stun setting, and waits.

There are no steps. There's no sound at all, no shadow, but a moment later a hand comes into view, and Fives tenses. It’s a slim hand, tanned dark, and it curls around the corner of the stone, tightens—

A Human woman stumbles into view. She’s short, her features worn and lined even if she doesn’t seem that old, wearing rough clothes that wouldn’t look out of place anywhere in the Outer Rim. Not armed, Fives thinks, but he’s already moving, lunging to catch her as she trips and falls. A beat behind the motion comes the realization that it’s a karking stupid move, but by that time she’s colliding with Fives's chest, and if she’s going to stab him or shoot him it’s probably already too late.

She doesn’t, though. There's a moment of startled stillness on both their parts, and then a breath. The woman pulls back sharply, eyes wide, and says, “I’m sorry, thank you for that, but—who are you?”

“I was about to ask you the same thing,” Fives says ruefully. “Uh, I'm Fives, ma’am. From the 501st Legion of the Grand Army of the Republic.”

“A soldier?” The woman frowns, looking him over, then turning to look up and down the hall. The light catches in her dark hair, bringing out a hint of gold, and Fives pauses. She reminds him of someone, but he can't think who. “I—this is going to sound very strange, but where are we?”

“I have no idea,” Fives confesses. “Somewhere in the Esstran sector. It’s a Sith planet, that’s about all I know.”

That, at least, makes the woman smile, just a little wry. “It seems we’re in the same situation, then,” she says. “You woke up here as well?”

“Our ship crashed.” Fives pauses, wondering how much he should say, but—she’s not a threat. He’s almost completely sure of that. “I think the rest of the group found a way off the planet, though. I'm just…looking for some people who got lost.”

The woman smooths her hands over her dress, a nervous gesture, and looks back up the tunnel. “This place, it’s…”

“Creepy,” Fives finishes for her, and she smiles faintly.

“Yes,” she allows, and twists her fingers into her skirt. “I can't pay for passage, but—if you're leaving, please, take me with you. I don’t want to stay here.”

“Of course,” Fives says without hesitation. He’s not about to leave a civilian here to get eaten by the zombies. “I have to find the general first, but—stick with me, I’ll keep you safe.”

“Thank you.” Her voice is soft in the darkness, full of a painful kind of relief. Then she pauses, and says, “I'm sorry. You gave me your name and I didn’t return the favor. I'm Shmi.”


	25. Chapter 25

“Adi,” Luminara says, warmly relieved, and reaches out.

Adi catches her hands, gripping them tightly for a moment, and smiles. “Luminara,” she returns. “It’s good to see you in one piece.”

“And you as well.” Luminara looks her over for a moment, taking in the bacta patches leading down the side of her neck and over her shoulder, and feels that old, familiar twist of resigned fear. Another friend almost lost, and they're all doing their duty as Jedi, but—

It’s been a long war, and sometimes Luminara is very, very tired.

Adi smiles wryly. “Thanks to my squadron,” she says. “Odd Ball saved my life.”

“You’d have gotten it in a minute, General,” Odd Ball says loyally, but he steps forward to bump vambraces with Gree. “Gree. Any new useless languages floating around in that head of yours?”

“Dead, not useless,” Gree says, miffed, but he smirks at the other commander. “Finally learn to shake a tail, vod?”

Odd Ball scoffs and tells him to do something vulgar in Mando'a, and when Barriss muffles a laugh, he flushes. “Commander Offee,” he offers, abashed.

Barriss bows to him, quick and neat. “Commander Odd Ball,” she returns, but there’s humor bright in her gaze.

Amused, Adi pulls back, folding her arms over her chest. There’s a weight in her eyes that Luminara can feel in her own spine, a steady, grim certainty that settled over them with Shaak's messages. “I’ve set one of the medbays aside for us,” she says, quiet. “Clone medics only, and I was hoping Barriss would be willing to assist, given her training as a Healer.”

“Of course,” Luminara agrees, and inclines her head to Barriss. They discussed it on the flight here, but it settles something in Luminara’s chest to see the way Barriss doesn’t even hesitate to nod and immediately step forward.

“I'm prepared,” she says. “Thank you, Master Gallia.”

Adi smiles at her, bare and faint, but fond. “Thank _you_ , padawan. Bay 6, when you’re ready.”

“I’ll go now,” Barriss murmurs, and Luminara touches her shoulder briefly, gets a smile and a flicker of reassurance over their bond in return. Barriss is sensitive, and Luminara worries, but—there’s no one she would trust more with the clones who serve alongside them. Barriss will do everything she can to help them.

Frowning, Gree turns, scanning for any troopers close, and then raises his voice to call, “Draa, Buzz, over here!” The two turn immediately, leaving their spot unloading cargo to jog over, and Gree waves them forward. “Stick with the commander,” he orders. “Don’t get in the way, but don’t let her out of your sight.”

Barriss blinks, then frowns faintly, folding her hands in front of her. “I can look after myself, Commander Gree,” she protests.

“No one is doubting that, Barriss,” Luminara says swiftly, stepping in, because she knows how Barriss hates being thought incapable. “But you're going to be occupied with other things. Let the troopers be your eyes for now.” Delicate, light, she lets a thought trace down their bond, just a flicker-quick touch of _there's so much at stake here_ that resonates with the faces of every clone in their care, the memory of the chips, the speculation of what could be done with such technology in the unknowing.

Barriss meets her eyes, steady, grim. She nods, and says, “I won't let you down, Master.”

“That,” Luminara says warmly, “was never in question, Barriss.”

Barriss smiles back wanly, then turns to face Draa and Buzz. “Thank you,” she tells them. “This way, please.”

Adi is silent as she watches them leave, mouth thin, eyes tired. When Luminara steps up beside her, hands folded into the sleeves of her robe, she raises her chin faintly and says, “I don’t like this, Luminara.”

“I think that means you're a reasonable, feeling creature, Adi,” Luminara returns, and glances sideways at Gree, one pace to the side and half a pace behind her, just like he always is. Odd Ball is next to Adi, helmet tucked under one arm, watching them with careful, attentive wariness, and she breathes in, breathes out.

The control chips were implanted for a reason. Someone wants to harm these men, who have already been so thoroughly used and abused by the Republic at large.

“I've never been quite so tempted to turn my starfighter around and fly straight to Kamino,” Adi confesses, expression hard. “It’s lucky Shaak said she had everything under control, or I might have done it.”

Luminara tips her head, amused. “If Agen wasn’t there, you would be,” she says, because she _knows_ Adi.

That, at least, makes Adi smirk faintly. “I like anyone who has three grenades on then at any given time,” she says. “On principle. And Agen's more useful there than I would be.”

“There is wisdom in knowing your place,” Luminara agrees. She thinks of Quinlan, forever struggling with where he’s supposed to be. Thinks of Obi-Wan, trying to fit into the places that need him even when he doesn’t fit them. This war has made them all strangers, in one way or another. Finding one’s place is much, much harder now, but—someday all the fighting will end. Luminara has faith in that.

Adi hums, then says, “Well. At least Shaak got a padawan out of this whole mess.”

Luminara chuckles a little, remembering the way the cadet looked at Shaak, like he’d never seen someone so impressive. “He seems sweet. I wish her all the luck.”

“New commander, sir?” Odd Ball asks curiously. “On Kamino?”

Luminara pauses, surprised. She supposes Tup is a commander now, technically. Padawans have tactics classes, years of training at this point, but—he does as well, doesn’t he? This is going to be quite the learning curve for everyone.

“A cadet,” Adi says, without hesitation. “He showed Force sensitivity, so Shaak petitioned the council to take him as her student.”

“A _clone_?” Odd Ball asks, startled. He glances at Gree, expression twisted into something unreadable, and then asks, “Is this what prompted the medbay seizure, sir?”

“One of the things,” Adi confirms. “We want to make sure that any Force-sensitive clones get offered training immediately, before something happens.”

For a long moment, Odd Ball is silent. Then, careful, he asks, “To other people? Or to them?”

“That,” Luminara says gravely, “is very much the question, Commander.” She glances at Adi, and then says, “Our medics have started rerunning bloodwork, testing for midichlorians, but the station’s systems can do it far more effectively. If we keep the scans going, I believe we can have both of our divisions done before the next cycle.”

“Pong Krell’s last deployment was a disaster, but it had survivors,” Adi says, even. “He got knocked out by a concussive grenade and they finished the mission as best they could without him.”

Luminara opens her mouth to answer, but before she can, there’s a spike of negative emotion close at hand, rage and fury and fear all compressed into a lance of suffering, so sharp it makes her flinch. Adi jerks as well, turning sharply on her heel, and—

Behind them, near the wall of the bay, a clone trooper freezes. His armor has the mark of Krell’s division, and he’s clearly battered, but as soon as their eyes land on him he jerks his head back around to the front and keeps moving.

Silent, wary, Luminara watches him hurry out of the hangar, head ducked, and then says slowly, “I’m glad his men survived.”

“Most of them,” Adi says, eyes narrowed. She glances over at Odd Ball, raising a brow, but the pilot just shakes his head, clearly unfamiliar with the trooper.

“I can go look into things, sir,” Gree offers quietly, fingertips brushing the back of her wrist. A habit Luminara has with Barriss, a quick test of emotional response to make sure she’s all right, and Gree isn't a Jedi, but—it’s still a comfort.

Luminara inclines her head, worry flickering, and says, “Be careful, Commander. I have…a rather bad feeling about this.”

Adi shoots her a look as Gree leaves, clearly knowing just how reluctant Luminara is to say those words after a childhood acquaintance with Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon Jinn, but she just says, “Shaak's last transmission just came in, if you want to look it over with me, Luminara.”

“I think I can manage that much,” Luminara agrees. “Our wounded—”

“The staff will see to them, sir,” Odd Ball says firmly. When Luminara raises a brow at him, he coughs into his fist and flushes. “Sorry. General Gallia has a tendency to worry.”

Adi scowls at him, though there’s humor in her eyes. “Only when you and the men make me, Odd Ball.”

“And you returned the favor this time,” Odd Ball says, perfectly mild. “We appreciate the chance to have the situation reversed, sir, but please don’t do it again. I thought Trickshot and Swipe were going to have heart attacks.”

“I was out-maneuvered,” Adi allows ruefully. “Believe me, Commander, I’d rather not be in that situation again.”

“Good enough,” Odd Ball mutters. “Want an escort, sirs?”

Luminara weighs Jedi matters against the fact that this entirely involves the clones, and the fact that spreading the information about the chips, even quietly, increases their odds of being dealt with should the worse happen. Jedi are skilled, after all, but…mortal.

From the look on Adi’s face, she’s having the same thoughts. “What we’re talking about could put a target on your back, Odd Ball,” she warns quietly. “You can join us if you want, but it won't be safe.”

“It’s a war, sir,” Odd Ball says frankly. “Nothing’s safe. Every time I go up, there’s a high chance I'm not coming back. If this has to do with the men, I’d rather know, if you don’t mind.”

“With all of the clones,” Luminara confirms, and nods to Adi. “After you.”

Adi looks rueful, the pull of her smile tired. “At least this probably won't get you shot at immediately,” she tells Odd Ball, but doesn’t hesitate to lead them out of the hangar and into the station proper.

Cody's mind is a spot of brilliance in the darkness.

Mace fixes his attention on it, makes it a compass. The press of their hands is the lodestone, and Cody's mind is true north, keeping him from wavering no matter what rises around them. Reactions are hard to bury, hard to kill; Mace has been fighting since he was a child, and the sight of an enemy swinging at Cody's head makes every trained instinct scream to move, immediate and simple as breathing.

It’s a test of control, though, and Mace's control has always been one of his greatest strengths.

“Mace?” Cody asks, quiet, and the grip of Mace’s hand is too tight, like he’s about to drag Cody back to safety, grab his lightsaber, fight.

“I’m just as fine as I was last time you asked,” Mace says evenly, and steps forward deliberately, focusing on Cody's steady, unperturbed thoughts. There's nothing but empty space beneath his feet, a long drop down into molten rock, a sharp spike of warning from the Force, but—

His boots hit stone. Illusion, he thinks, and breathes out.

Being unable to trust himself is…unpleasant. Being unable to trust the Force is far, far worse.

“That good?” Cody asks dryly, and the twist of his thoughts is right there, the only solid, reliable thing in the world right now. Mace could touch his mind, see through his eyes, but—

That was a line Cody drew very early on. Emergency only, and even that was a reluctant agreement. His mind is one of the only things that’s fully his own, and Mace won't intrude on that.

“I wouldn’t want to have it too easy,” he says, and keeps walking, following Cody up the faint incline of the tunnel. The heat of the distant magma falls away, and the air starts to cool rapidly, until Mace's breath clouds in gusts of white around him. Grimly, Mace ignores it, doesn’t look down as his next step sinks into snow halfway up his calf. The sky above is a dull, ugly grey, the color of an impending storm, and a harsh wind howls across the icy field, but—

Cody hasn’t paused. He isn't walking any different than normal, isn't even lifting his boots to accommodate the snow. Illusion, no matter how real it feels right now.

“Yeah, getting bored would be tragic,” Cody mutters. “What would we even do with ourselves if we’d crashed somewhere normal?”

Mace snorts softly, and when the next gust of biting wind sends a flurry of blinding snow slanting across his face, he stubbornly closes his eyes and doesn’t react. “I can't even imagine.”

“Now _that_ would be a honeymoon,” Cody says. “Maybe we could’ve crashed somewhere tropical, spent a week lying around on a beach before Obi-Wan managed to find us.”

“You would have been vibrating within a day,” Mace says dryly, because he’s willing to bet Cody takes to forced inaction about as well as he does, which isn't very.

There's a pause, and then Cody sighs. “Probably,” he admits, and then says, careful, “You're shaking.”

“An illusion of cold,” Mace says without opening his eyes. He can feel the blizzard; he doesn’t need to see it. “I assume we’re going in the right direction, if it’s trying so hard to stop us.”

For a moment, Cody doesn’t say anything. Then, careful, he braces his shoulder against Mace's, and the heat of him is a relief. “Want to stop for a bit?” he asks.

“Preferably not in the middle of a blizzard,” Mace says dryly. “The next one won't be any more pleasant, but…” He pauses, and then says, a confession, “I don’t like snow.”

“Me neither,” Cody says, a flicker of humor in it that Mace clings to. “Give me a jungle or a desert any day over an ice planet.” Another pause, and then he offers, “Tunnel’s started to rise. I think we’re going up, even if we haven’t made it too far from the canyon yet.”

Mace couldn’t feel the leviathan’s influence from the top of the cliff, so with any luck at all getting back to the surface will be far enough to escape its hold. Mace inclines his head, accepting that, and says, “These tunnels likely run all the way beneath the citadel. Even if we don’t come out where we were, we might be able to find Anakin.”

“Assuming he hasn’t tripped into trouble,” Cody mutters.

“Deeper into it,” Mace counters, and Cody snorts.

“Between him and General Kenobi, I'm going to start finding gray hairs any day now,” he mutters, and then, “Stairs three steps ahead of us. They’re low, but it’s a steep rise.”

“Thank you.” Mace adjusts for Cody's slightly shorter strides, steps, and feels the first stair underneath his foot. Instantly, the illusion of the blizzard shatters, and he lets out a slow breath of relief at the wash of muggy heat that replaces it. Just for a moment, he allows himself to open his eyes, to take in the sight of the dark steps winding upward around a spiral of stone, Cody in front of him. Sees a glimpse of movement—

“Mace?” Cody asks, turning to look at him. The light of Mace's lightsaber catches on the scar that curves around his left eye, on the barrel of the blaster Jango levels against Cody's skull, and it takes every ounce of Mace's control not to lunge.

Instead, he breathes out, slow, steady. Doesn’t let himself move, because it’s just an illusion, and says, “Jango is standing right behind you.”

“Maybe we can steal _his_ ship,” Cody says, unbothered. “I've heard he used to boobytrap it worse than any Sith temple, though, so the Sith Lord in the citadel would probably be an easier mark.”

The humor is enough to ease the tension, and Mace snorts, allowing Cody to pull him onward. They walk right past Jango, whose helmet turns to follow them, blaster unwavering. He doesn’t take the shot, though, and Mace firmly relegates him to the label of illusion and doesn’t look back.

“Breaking into the Sith Empire’s former seat of power to steal a ship from the Jedi's greatest enemy for our escape is certainly not a solution I would have defaulted to,” he allows.

Cody snickers. “Welcome to life around General Skywalker,” he says. “What if I told you it wasn’t the most insane thing I've ever done?”

“I’d say that a real vacation is long overdue,” Mace says dryly.

“For everyone in the 212th and 501st,” Cody agrees with a sigh. “For the whole war, maybe.” He’s silent for a moment, and then says, “Can I ask you something personal?”

Mace raises a brow, a little surprised. “Of course.”

The pull of Cody's expression is almost wry. “You say that like anything about this situation is normal,” he mutters, but before Mace can respond, he asks, “That—ghost, or whatever he is. He was implying…”

He trails off, like he can't think how to phrase the question, and Mace snorts. “A generous word,” he says dryly. “Qui-Gon was only ever subtle when he was forced to be.”

“So you think it’s him?” Cody's voice is perfectly even, eyes focused ahead of them, so Mace doesn’t bother reacting to the vornskrs waiting in the shadows of the next landing.

“It feels like him,” Mace allows. “That doesn’t mean it is.”

Cody grunts. “Stairs end here,” he warns. “One step up and it’s flat. There's a gap straight ahead of you, drops right back down.”

Mace eyes the completely solid-looking flight of stairs that continues unimpeded, then nods his thanks and turns to follow Cody, even though it looks like another solid wall. “To your question,” he says evenly, “yes. We were involved when we were younger. Qui-Gon found a better match eventually, and I was preoccupied with my duties to the council, so little ever came of it.”

For a long moment, Cody is silent. Then, short, he nods, and says, “Low arch here, duck.”

That, at least, Mace can see. He avoids it, and—

Dooku, in the shadows, swinging at Cody’s head with a red blade. Mace's limbs jerk, reaching out without conscious thought, and he touches his lightsaber, ready to call it to him—

“Not real,” Cody says firmly, and stands there, perfectly steady, as the blade passes through his torso without impact. “Mace?”

It takes a second for Mace to recover his breath, and he closes his eyes, focusing. Can't answer, heartbeat too quick in his chest as he tries to ease himself back from the edge.

“Let’s take a rest,” Cody says quietly, and sinks down against the wall, pulling Mace down with him. Mace goes gladly, too much tension like claws sunk into his spine, and he leans against the wall of the tunnel with a sigh, tipping his head back against cool stone.

Deliberate, steady, Cody presses their shoulders together, not letting go of Mace's hand. From shoulder to knee, Mace can feel his heat, and it’s grounding in a way that he can't even put into words.

“Whatever’s waiting for us in the citadel, I think I prefer it to this,” he says, wry.

“Even if it’s a Sith Lord?” Cody asks.

Mace closes his eyes, not wanting to see whatever else the leviathan pulls from his memories to taunt him with. “Personal combat is far easier than fighting a war,” he says.

Cody weighs that, considers it. “Even if they’re smart enough to pull the strings on all of this?” he asks.

“There's a Jedi ability,” Mace says. “Most Jedi can learn it, but a handful are born with the talent. We see where things are weakest—flaws in defenses, or old injuries, or where a move will go badly. I have no reason to doubt that it will work against a Sith Lord just as well as it has against all of my other opponents.”

“That’s…” Cody pauses, looking for words, and then finishes with a rueful, “actually really cool.”

Mace smiles before he can help himself, and—seeing shatterpoints has always been a fact of life for him, nothing to consider except in how it can help him carry out his duties. Just for a moment, though, he lets himself look at it from another point of view, as if he’s hearing about it for the first time, and says, “I suppose it is.”

There’s an inhale beside him, and then a sound of revelation. “ _That’s_ how you can put your fist through a droid,” Cody says, sounding like he doesn’t know whether to be incredulous or offended. “You can see where the armor is weakest?”

Mace opens one eye, and the sight of Cody’s face is worth the glimpse of the arena on Geonosis, Agen’s padawan crumpled still and broken on the ground at his Master’s feet. Past, Mace tells himself, and forces himself to focus on Cody. He knows that tone; it’s one Stak always uses when he’s lost a bet. “You had money on a different explanation?” he asks.

Cody rolls his eyes at him. “You being able to not feel pain,” he admits, grudging.

“Brass wouldn’t take that as an excuse,” Mace says, just able to imagine his medic’s face if he tried such a thing.

It makes Cody laugh a little. “Neither would Shank,” he agrees. “I think Kix has learned to pick his battles, though. He’d let General Skywalker try it, and then fix him in the aftermath.”

“Dealing with the fallout is usually easier than arguing with him.” Mace closes his eyes again, breathing out, and can’t help but wonder what the next image will be. He’s been a Jedi long enough that even with Mind Healers, his memories are a minefield of tragedies. The leviathan certainly won’t run out of fodder any time soon.

“Usually,” Cody agrees. Pauses again, a weary but comfortable silence stretching between them, and breathes out slowly. Asks, soft, “If you can kill the Sith Lord, does that mean the war ends?”

It’s not a plaintive question, though maybe there’s a trace of wistfulness to it. Grim, more obviously, with an edge of tired resignation. Cody expects the answer to be _no_.

Mace, though, takes a moment, thinking on it. Weighs the course of the war so far, all the bits of information the Separatists have been able to gather that should be secret, the way Dooku is always one step ahead of them. Thinks of the times no one has listened to reason, or gone against the Order’s recommendations for petty reasons. Thinks of the battles and the droid armies and the endless slog towards freeing conquered planets, the people suffering, the troopers struggling.

The Sith Lord is pulling the strings. They’ve known that since the start.

“Not immediately,” he says, careful of each word. “But shortly thereafter, I think. The Separatists depend heavily on Dooku as the face of their movement, as their leader. Without him, and without his Master, I believe a victory will come far more easily.”

Cody’s breath is light, almost a sigh, but there’s a trace of relief in it. “I’ll take more easily any day,” he says. “If I can find a blaster, I’ll gladly try to hit them from a distance, if it would help.”

“An enemy with their attention divided can only help us,” Mace agrees, though something prickles across his spine at the words. He pauses, trying to tease out the feeling, but all he gets is a lingering sense of unease. Considers, again, Cody playing sniper while he faces down the Sith Lord, and—

It feels like danger. Mace can’t quite tells whose, though, and he grimaces. Cody being in danger isn’t something they can stop entirely, given the war, but—Mace will have to be wary of traps for him if they do face the Sith.

The Force sings a warning, one bright-sharp spark of alarm that flashes through Mace’s nerves like electricity, and he reacts without thinking. A hand out, calling his lightsaber, and the violet blade leaps from Cody’s grip as Mace rolls to his feet, brings it up hard.

A crimson blade crashes into it and holds.

“ _Not_ an illusion,” Cody bites out, twisting up, and Mace lets out a breath of relief even as he stares at the half-there image of a Human Sith, rapidly becoming more present. In the red-violet glow, he can see dark robes taking shape from the shadows, a twisted snarl curling the man’s bearded face. His eyes are the last thing to take on substance, fading in from vague grey to bright, unnerving gold.

“ _Jedi_ ,” he hisses, and the world shivers—

Dooku lays the blade of his lightsaber a hair’s breadth from Mace’s throat, and says, low, pleased, “And now we end what you couldn’t bring yourself to on Geonosis, Master Windu.”

An illusion, Mace thinks, but he can feel the energy of the blade, can see the glow of it. Breathes, and the Sith in front of him laughs, a ragged, croaking cackle that vibrates, discordant, across Mace’s nerves.

“We have you,” he taunts, and—

“Mace!” Cody cries, half an instant too late. The Sith laughs, and the tunnel shakes, and Mace has one moment in which to act, one move to make and too many options.

He’s a Jedi, before and beyond anything else, so he takes the obvious one.

The roof of the tunnel cracks, stone dropping in a wide swath. Behind Mace, Dooku makes a sound of victory, lightsaber humming as he brings it down. The Sith ghost drives his blade forward, and Mace turns sharply, lightsaber deflecting the red blade. He can’t pay attention to it, though, can’t follow through; can’t even care about Dooku, the phantom image of a blade driving at his spine. Illusion, he thinks, and brings a hand up. One choice, because there are too many rocks to catch, too much force—

A red blade skims his shoulder in a flare of agony just before his concentration crystallizes. It takes a thought to catch Cody with the Force, to throw him forward and clear of the rocks as they come down. The tunnel caves inward, and Mace steps, turns, blocks the Sith as he moves with a sweep of violet, and feels the familiar adrenaline surge of viciousness, intent, _eagerness_ as the rocks fall.

Vaapad is the embrace of a darker nature, the urge to fight channeled into victory. A step into the darkness to get back to the light.

The earth shakes, shards of stone raining down. But Cody is beyond them, safe on the other side of the blockage, and Mace has a Sith before him who can’t be allowed to remain a threat.

“Yes,” he says into the darkness, and lets his heart beat faster in anticipation, the desire to fight and win and keep moving like a heat in his chest. “I’m a Jedi. And I won’t let you remain in this world, Sith.”

The man bares his teeth, furious, and lunges, and Mace turns to meet him, driving him back with one hard blow. Sees, instinctive, the weakness in the way he steps, one moment of retreat that’s enough to put him off balance. Ruthless, unhesitating, Mace pushes, leaps past him to force him to turn, kicks out a knee and knocks an arm wide, lashes down—

“ _No_ ,” the man snarl, and the ache in Mace’s shoulder redoubles. He staggers, ducks down as the red lightsaber passes over his head, then twists up, leaps over the man’s head, and gets a foot on the wall to redirect him, slamming down and driving right towards the weakness he can see in the man’s frame—

Sees, out of the corner of his eye, a flicker of blue coalescing as the world shifts. Qui-Gon steps out of nothingness, right into the ruined hall of the Coruscant Temple, and his green lightsaber hums to life.

In his moment of distraction, the Sith slips past his blade, pulling away to circle him like a hungry vornskr. Mace steps back, trying to keep both Qui-Gon and the Sith in view, and says coolly, “Two against one? I thought you favored fair fights, Qui-Gon.”

“You aren’t the only one in this tunnel, Mace,” Qui-Gon says, just a thread of painfully familiar amusement in his voice. He always used to laugh at Mace like that, rather than outright; it let both of them keep the façade of being at odds more often than they weren’t. “Are you sure you want us to split our attention?”

Cody. Of course. Qui-Gon used him to get at Mace once, and he won’t hesitate to do it again. Grimly, Mace twists his blade in his hand, not for show so much as to judge the distance between himself and the tunnel walls he can’t see. It looks like the temple after a massacre, and the horror is close, looming, but—

Illusion, Mace tells himself again. He can withstand it. He’s been the Order’s champion for decades now, and visions from the Dark Side can’t defeat him.

“I just thought you’d like find another person,” Mace says. “It being just two on one is so unfair to you.”

Qui-Gon smiles, crooked and wry. “Always so confident, Mace,” he says. “Even when you haven’t earned it.”

It’s off. Subtly, but it’s there. This isn’t the Qui-Gon Mace once knew, not quite. He says things that don’t ring true, that he would know wouldn’t apply if he had all of his memories. There are enough of them to put up a façade, to fool the already off-balance, but Mace isn’t. Mace knows Qui-Gon, and this is a facsimile of him, pieces of who he used to be haphazardly stitched together into something that’s almost right.

In light of that, Mace can ignore the ruined temple, the danger that’s rising. Can focus, careful, on the threads that make up Qui-Gon’s presence, the presence of the other Sith ghost. They’re not illusions to be beaten with stubbornness, but—

They can be beaten, and that’s enough for Mace to know.

He shifts his grip on his lightsaber, sets his feet. Falls back into a starting stance that Qui-Gon won’t know, and steadies himself.

“Earned?” he echoes, sharp. “Let me show you, Qui-Gon, since you seem to have forgotten. I’ve heard old age can do that to you.”

There’s darkness all around him, the ruins of his home, familiar bodies in the rubble. But Mace can still fight, and he won’t let old ghosts hold him here. Not when Cody needs help. Not when Anakin is vulnerable. Not when Fives and Kix are both in danger.

He moves, and illusions or not, he doesn’t hesitate.


	26. Chapter 26

The tunnel shakes like it’s about to come down around them.

With a sound of alarm, Shmi ducks, hands going up to cover the back of her head as she flattens herself against the wall in the automatic motion of someone who’s been in a cave-in before. Fives lunges to follow, heart in his throat, and throws himself over her, only belatedly remembering that he doesn’t have a handy layer of plastoid over his spine right now. Even so, he stays where he is, braced for impact, until the rumble and the rain of dust dies away as suddenly as it appeared.

There's a long moment of tense silence before Fives pushes away from the stone, taking a quick step back. He looks around, but the torches are still lit, and there’s no visible damage that he can see anywhere in their tunnel. Which means whatever happened was somewhere else, and _that_ means the odds of General Windu and Commander Cody being involved are pretty much astronomical.

The fact that there even was some kind of cave-in or something means they’re probably in trouble, though, and that’s not overly promising.

“Is this cave system unstable?” Shmi asks, mouth tight. She carefully pushes upright, looking like she’s waiting for it to all come down on top of her, and then asks, “How far down is your general?”

“I have no idea,” Fives says. He’s been saying that a bit too much, these last few days. Fervently, impossibly, he wishes Echo was around, because even leaving the regs aside Echo’s good at plans. He can figure out what needs to be done and put the pieces together. “Down. Somewhere. I just—I know I need to help him.”

Shmi looks him over for a long moment, and her dark eyes are thoughtful. “That sounds…”

“Crazy?” Fives mutters. “Yeah. Believe me, I know.”

Shmi chuckles, soft, like she’s wary of the sound. “I was going to say ‘like someone else I know’,” she says. “My son would get feelings, sometimes. Things always went better when he listened to them.”

Something too much like horror flares, and Fives catches his breath. “You have a kid?” he asks, alarmed. “Here? Do we—can I help you find him? Do you need to look for him?”

An old, tired sort of sadness fills Shmi, and just for a moment it’s all Fives can feel. It _aches_ , right down to his bones, and it’s a worn thing, sanded down to a glass-thin edge that cuts all the deeper for it. Shmi doesn’t look away, just raises her chin, squares her shoulders as much as she can.

“No,” she says softly. “He left a very long time ago, to become something better. To have something more than I could give him.”

Fives swallows against the grief that isn't his, takes a breath. It would be…really helpful to have an actual Jedi around right now, he thinks, but forges on through it and says honestly, “I'm sorry.”

“I'm not,” Shmi says, all steel beneath her grace. She smiles, touching Fives's arm as she passes, but keeps moving down the tunnel. “I did what was best for my son, and I've never regretted it.”

Fives follows her, trying to translate the tangle of emotions in his head into words. “It’s—that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt,” he says after a moment.

Shmi inclines her head. “No,” she agrees. “But it means it’s worth it.”

There's something about her that Fives can't figure out. They're in the middle of a Sith planet, and he’s _seen_ the zombies, heard about General Skywalker's encounter with the ghost of a dead friend. Seen the diplomatic ship, and the brainwashed guards, and _knows_ that everything here is dangerous, and yet—

And yet, Shmi feels like General Windu does. Steady, set, strong, but…bright in a way that Fives doesn’t quite have words for. The way General Ti felt, back on Kamino when they went to see her about changing squads. Like a river, maybe, with a glass-calm surface that hides just how deep it is.

Fives has no idea if that sense is the Force or if it’s just people being really, exceptionally calm and in control of themselves. Maybe some of both, honestly.

“I didn’t know that the Republic had a standing army,” Shmi says, without looking back. She skirts a branching corridor like there’s something hiding in the shadows that’s about to grab her, so Fives gives it the same berth, eyeing the lack of torchlight within warily.

The words are strange enough to keep his attention, though, and he eyes the line of her back, the steady care of her steps as she moves. “It’s a pretty new thing. You're not from a Republic planet, are you?” She says _the Republic_ like it’s something distant, more a concept than a reality, and though the Republic’s reach can be vague in the depths of the Outer Rim, most people there still consider themselves part of it.

Shmi pauses, like she’s debating her response, but after a moment she allows, “No, from outside it. The Hutts rule on my planet, and they don’t like Republic interference.”

Fives wrinkles his nose. He’s never dealt directly with the Hutts, but he’s heard plenty of stories from the rest of the 501st, and from the other battalions they’ve met on leave. “Slavers,” he mutters disgustedly, and Shmi smiles crookedly at him.

“Yes,” she agrees, still steel. “One of the more objectionable things about them.” Glancing ahead again, she pauses, taking in the forking paths, and frowns. “Oh.”

Fives stops, too, then carefully reaches up and pulls his helmet off, tucking it under his arm as he squints into the darkness. Both tunnels slope gently downward, so there’s no easy way to rule one of them out, and…

Both of them make his nerves prickle, like eyes on the back of his head. Like Rishi Station just before Droidbait died. Fives doesn’t grip his blaster, but—maybe something in him wants to.

“Left, I think,” he says, without any reason why he does.

Shmi's frown deepens, just a little, and she folds her arms across her chest like she’s cold. “If you think it’s best,” she says, but it’s clearly not even close to enthusiastic.

Fives considers. “You think right’s better?” he asks, curious, and she swallows, but nods.

“It looks brighter, that way,” she says, though Fives can't see any difference between them. “Maybe there are more torches.”

“Right, then,” Fives agrees, and steps forward to take the lead, listening carefully. All he can hear is their footsteps echoed back at them, though, and the brush of cloth, which isn't helping his nerves much. General Windu is down here somewhere, in enough trouble that Anakin and Fives both felt him disappear, and—

A flicker, right at the corner of his eye. A helmet, bright and unmarked, pacing him through the corridor.

Fives wrenches around, heart in his throat, alarm beating a tattoo high up inside his chest. There's nothing behind him except Shmi, and she looks at him wide-eyed and takes a quick step back.

“Sorry,” Fives manages through the strangling tension. “I thought I saw something.”

“I didn’t,” Shmi says, worried. She takes a step forward, lays a hand on his arm, and some of the breath knotted in Fives's throat eases. “Are you all right?”

“Worried about General Windu,” Fives says, which is true enough. “I think he’s hurt. He’s got the commander with him, but…”

Windu is a Jedi, and if there's a threat he can't deal with, the odds of Cody being able to survive it are pretty slim.

“We’ll find him,” Shmi says, soft, steady. Taking a breath, Fives nods, takes one more look around the flickering shadows of the tunnel, and keeps moving.

He’s just been thinking about Hevy a lot. That’s why he thought he saw him. There's no other possible explanation for it.

“What are you doing all the way back here?” Blitz asks, mouth curling in the start of a smirk. “Finally escaped the general?”

Colt makes a rude gesture at him, quick and emphatic. “Jealousy’s showing, vod,” he retorts.

Scoffing, Blitz elbows him hard in the ribs. “If I’d won that card game, it would’ve been me tapped for guard duty,” he says. “Don’t let your head get big, Colt. It won't fit in your helmet.”

“About the fact that I beat you?” Colt asks, amused. “Not how it works, Blitz. You find those shinies?”

The relief that flickers across Blitz’s face makes Colt regret the charade, just a bit; Blitz has a soft spot for their trainees. “Yeah, General Kolar found them dumped in a maintenance closet. He and General Ti both think it was Ventress, so we’re lucky she didn’t just kill them outright.”

“Wanted to use them as hostages, maybe,” Colt says, glancing around the bunk room. His own bed is in the corner, untouched, but—General Ti set him up a bed in her quarters, so he hasn’t had much call to come back here these last few days. “Havoc on his way back?”

“He’s trying to avoid Nala Se’s temper tantrum over her office getting wrecked, so probably.” Blitz sounds amused, but there’s a slat to his mouth that’s tired. He sits down on the edge of his bed, pulling off his armor, and asks, “Who’s the new kid following the general around? Haven’t seen a hairdo that fancy since Kix first got his hands on a razor.”

Colt snorts, leaning back against the wall, and fingers the jammer General Kolar pushed into his hands before they’d started the mission. He hadn’t said anything, and Colt hadn’t mentioned his plans, but—

Jedi. Maybe someday Colt will get used to them.

“Tup,” he says. “From one of the cadet squads. General Ti picked him out of a bunch like something was pulling her right to him. Says he’s going to be a Jedi just like her.”

Blitz drops one of his pauldrons. “A _brother_?” he repeats, eyes wide. Pauses, clearly untangling the implications, and blows out a breath through his teeth. “Kriff. Some guys get all the luck.”

Colt smirks, even though he’d thought something similar when he first heard. “You want to be a Jedi, Blitz? Sit around meditating and negotiating all day?”

Blitz scoffs. “Hell no, but I do want a lightsaber. You’ve seen what those things can do.” Leaning back, he kicks his boots off, then settles against the wall, watching Colt. “How’s Ti able to tell? Jedi sense?”

“Midichlorians,” Colt says, grim. “Long-necks wrote the test out of all their procedures, even though there’d definitely be a few of us with a high count in an army this big.”

For a moment, Blitz doesn’t answer, expression twisted. “Sounds like them, all right,” he says, just before the door slides open. Havoc steps in, pulling his helmet off, and then hesitates, looking from Colt to Blitz.

“Heavy thoughts, vode?” he asks curiously, and nods to Colt. Colt nods back, then deliberately keys the door closed and locks it behind him.

“About to get heavier, apparently,” Blitz says, eyes narrowed as he watches Colt.

Colt activates the jammer, taking two steps forward to deliberately set it one the table in clear view. “If you want out, say so now,” he tells both of his fellow commanders, and settles down in one of the empty chairs.

Havoc and Blitz exchange glances, but Havoc crosses the room to his own bunk, starting to strip off his armor. “Not waiting for Twister, then?” he asks.

“Twister’s not a batchmate,” Colt says. The facility’s fourth commander is from a newer generation, and while it sits wrong to distrust a brother, Colt remembers how grim General Windu looked, back on Coruscant. Colt or one of his batchmates, he’d said. No one else should stay with General Ti.

With the chips in all the younger clones, and the lack in Colt, it’s easy to guess as to why.

Havoc raises a brow. “This can't be about the cadet General Ti adopted,” he says, “since he’s walking around in plain view with a padawan braid. Something else happen, Colt?”

The general is trying to work things out from her end, and Colt appreciates her efforts. Knows, immediate and unhesitating, to just what lengths Shaak Ti will go to keep all of their brothers safe. She’s a good person, and she cares about them.

Colt cares, too. And Colt knows just how far some people will go to keep a secret, especially the long-necks. General Ti is a Jedi, and she’s strong, devastating in a fight, but—

She has faith in people. It’s one of the things Colt likes best about her, how she tries to see the best even when it’s a danger to her personally.

Leaving her alone with Tup itches like nails down his spine, but it’s necessary right now. Tup's going to kill a Jedi, General Ti saw it. The chips are all wrapped up in this, too, and Colt's got a suspicion as to just why all of the newer batches are ending up with control chips in their brains.

“Someone,” he says grimly, “has got the Kaminoans sticking control chips in the brains of all the clones that came after us.”

Blitz goes still, and Havoc’s breath catches audibly. There's a moment of complete silence, and Colt watches the horror grow between them as the words settle.

“Control chips,” Blitz repeats after a long minute. “Control of what, exactly?”

“Something that’s different between us and the new batches,” Havoc says, slow. “I haven’t noticed anything, though.”

That’s what caught Colt's attention, too. He knows his batchmates, knows himself. There’s no functional difference between them and the rest of the clones, not in levels of aggression, not in intelligence, not in any sort of skill. So the chips target something different, and Colt has an idea as to what.

“Nala Se is going to need her office inspected once the repairs are done,” he says, and pulls the bugs he swiped from the armory from his belt, scattering them in front of him. “Whichever one of you gets tapped to do it, I say we leave a few of these around and find out.” He hesitates, weighing what else to say, and then offers, “General Ti felt something, the other day, when she touched a clone. She was convinced he was going to kill a Jedi.”

Blitz hisses, anger flaring. “Did you report it?” he demands, rising to his feet. “It could be her he’s going to turn on!”

“I _know_ ,” Colt says sharply. “Believe me, I tried to convince the general, but she said he hasn’t done anything yet. And—”

“She thinks she can save him before he does,” Havoc finishes for him, rueful. “ _Jare Jetii_. Hasn’t she saved enough of us?”

Colt remembers her sadness in the hall, after speaking with El-Les. Remembers her comment about the names of the fallen, and how she feels sending soldiers off. He doesn’t consider himself any sort of soft, but—

Hell. In that moment Colt wished he could stop the whole war singlehandedly, just to wipe that look off her face.

“Knowing the general,” he says roughly, “it won't be enough even if she saves all of us.”

Blitz sighs, resigned, and rubs a hand over his face. “Slag,” he mutters. “No wonder you're not ticked about getting stuck on guard duty.”

“It’s General Ti,” Havoc points out, faintly amused. “No one would try to wriggle out of that. No one with sense, at least.” He rubs a hand over his buzzed hair, then glances over at Colt again. “You think the chips have something to do with a brother killing a Jedi?”

Colt nods curtly. “No brother would otherwise,” he says. “But if someone’s got a control chip in their head and they’re told to shoot a Jedi…” He thinks of Tup's face, of General Kolar’s quiet words to General Ti after Tup had fallen asleep. _Good soldiers follow orders_ , and something in Colt had gone cold and still and _vicious_ when he heard that.

“And if the Republic’s not telling the Kaminoans to put the chips in us, someone has to be.” Blitz scowls, then crosses to pick up several of the bugs Colt laid on the table.

“Nala Se has to be the one in charge of it,” Colt says in agreement. “No one even sneezes in the science division without giving her a full report.”

“And right now, there’s only one side in this war that’d benefit from troopers killing Jedi,” Havoc concludes, and takes his own handful. Weighs them in his hand for a moment, and then asks, “Does General Ti know about you telling us?”

Colt shakes his head, and he doesn’t even feel guilty about it. “She’s got enough to deal with, and she already told the Jedi High Council. They’ll work at it from their end, but…”

“But if any sort of order goes out early, better to have a backup plan,” Blitz says, grim.

Colt tips his head in agreement. Thinks of General Ti taking his helmet, careful, reverent. A helmet is a clone’s face, far more than their actual face. It’s the only thing they can make their own, and—

 _I will guard it with my life_ , she’d said, fully aware of the meaning.

Colt doesn’t want her to die for him. Doesn’t want her to die at all. But knowing that she would—

Well. She’s a Jedi. She’d probably die for a lot of people. That doesn’t make it any easier to breathe when she says things like that to him.

“You keep in touch with the rest of our batchmates, right?” he asks Havoc, who’s a distressingly friendly bastard.

Havoc raises a brow. “You want me to spread it?” he asks, though it doesn’t sound like he objects.

Blitz makes a thoughtful sound. “Makes sense,” he says. “We can keep it quiet, get some medics in on things too. If they can get the chips out of a couple of men, that’ll at least give us a chance to get the Jedi somewhere safe while we deal with things. Maybe a couple of small squads in each battalion, men who stick close to the Jedi normally.”

“Any guards on the temples,” Havoc says quietly. “And brothers who are around the padawans.”

Ice slides down Colt's spine, and he grimaces, rubbing his hands over his face. He saw the creche, when he was in the Coruscant temple. General Ti went down there to talk to a few of the younglings she’d found on missions, and they’d been so bright and happy, overjoyed to see her, perfectly trusting of Colt. The idea of a trooper not in control of himself walking in there with a blaster—

Nausea settles like a rock, and Colt swallows hard against it. Sithing hells. They really need to start moving.

“The Jedi are already trying to save us,” he says, flat, angry. Thinks of Shaak's slim red hands, pressed over the white of his helmet, fingers against the grey of his chosen markings. The way she held it, so careful, and the press of her forehead against his, the skin-warm brush of the akul-tooth headdress that marked her as a warrior against his own brow.

Breathes out, harsh, determined, and says, “Let’s save them in return.”

Cody's going to murder his husband. _Gleefully_.

“Mace!” he shouts, but the wall of stone just bounces his voice back at him, and Cody lets out a harsh breath, not willing to try again. He doesn’t want to distract Mace, pull his attention away from the Sith he’s fighting. A Sith _ghost_ , and Cody has faith in Mace as a Jedi, as a fighter, but—

How can anyone manage to fight something that’s already dead?

Frustrated, furious, Cody bangs a fist against the stone, realizes a half-second later what a bad idea that is as something shifts, and then pulls back. It’s pitch-black in the tunnel, not even a hint of light breaking through. Helmet lights would be really useful right now, but Cody's going to have to make do with what he has, which is…

One probably-cursed Sith warblade and the driving, desperate urge to grab Mace and _shake him_.

With a low growl, Cody steps sideways to get a hand on the tunnel wall, then takes four careful steps backwards, trying to catch any hint of red or violet through the blockage. If there’s a crack, though, he can't find it, and—

He should have known what Mace was going to do before he did it. Should have _realized_ , because it’s such a _Jedi_ thing to do, but Mace was already in trouble, seeing things, and Cody hadn’t even _considered_ that he’d throw Cody clear rather than saving himself.

Not a mistake he’s going to make again, Cody thinks grimly.

If he listens, evens out his breaths, he can hear the buzz of lightsabers colliding, muffled by the stone. Counts, trying to keep track of hits, and Mace _was_ hit, left himself vulnerable long enough to get Cody clear of the rocks. Mace is a fighter, is an experienced Jedi, but how well can even he do when he’s wounded, facing down a ghost? If Cody could just get back through—

There's a thud, hard, against the stone, and the green blade of a lightsaber drives right through the rubble.

Green. Not violet or red, and Cody feels a grim-heavy surge of something like panic, channeled into fury. “Jinn!” he shouts. “Over here! Come and face me!”

There's a pause as Cody's heart pounds in his chest, too long, stringing Cody's nerves tight. Then, deliberate, the stones tremble, and several part. Qui-Gon Jinn steps through the hole, giving Cody a half-second glimpse of Mace and the Sith locked together, and then resettles the stone as though it never shifted.

“The soldier,” he says, quietly amused, and the green of his lightsaber throws strange shadows across the tunnel. “You’ve been very quick to defend Mace, despite how he keeps putting you in danger.”

Every muscle tense, Cody curls a hand around the hilt of the warblade, draws it from its sheath like the motion alone is a threat. “Yeah, well, I signed up for it,” he says shortly, and—from what Anakin has said, Qui-Gon was a good enough Jedi to be on the High Council, except for how he kept bucking its rules. That doesn’t say a lot for Cody's chances here, but like hell he’s going to sit down and let Mace face down _two_ ghosts by himself.

Qui-Gon tips his head, and the fall of his greying hair catches the light of his blade. It makes Cody think of what Mace said before, about Qui-Gon finding a better match, and—

Well. Mace facing Qui-Gon the first time is all the proof Cody needs to know that there’s _something_ still there, whether it’s friendship or not. And someone, _anyone_ using that against Mace makes anger bubble up in his chest.

“Surely here, far beyond the Republic’s reach, you don’t have to be a soldier,” Qui-Gon says, like it’s an offer.

Cody snorts, calculating the distance between them. He’ll probably get one swing in before Qui-Gon’s lightsaber takes out his sword, so he’s going to have to make it count. Assuming he can take out a ghost, of course. Just the fact that he’s already out here instead of fighting Mace is a good start, though.

“I never signed up to be a soldier,” he counters, smirking. Levels the blade across his body, judging angles, and adds, offhand, “but I did marry Mace. That counts as signing up, right?”

Surprise flickers across Qui-Gon’s face, and he pulls back just slightly. Instantly, Cody takes the opening, throwing himself forward in one hard lunge. The lightsaber sweeps towards his head, but Cody twists, slides beneath it, and slams his shoulder into Qui-Gon’s chest, using his bulk and his armor to tumble him back. In the same motion, he brings the warblade up, deflecting the green lightsaber, expecting sheered metal, a brutally shortened hilt he can throw into Qui-Gon’s face—

With a scattering hiss, the lightsaber goes dead, blade dissipating as it crashes through Cody's sword, and Qui-Gon’s eyes go wide.

Cortosis, Cody thinks, equally startled, but he doesn’t allow himself to hesitate. Twists the sword, then tackles Qui-Gon, slamming him back into the wall of the tunnel with a crack of skull on stone. Qui-Gon cries out, slumping—

And disappears with a ripple of blue.

Catching his breath, Cody straightens, then glances down at the warblade. Coated in cortosis, he thinks. Clearly that Sith Lord he took it from had both money and taste.

“I think you just became my new favorite weapon,” he tells it, already well-able to picture Ventress’s face the next time he gets stuck facing her. Not that it will make her harmless, but—Cody wants to punch her in the face, just _once_ , for all the brothers she’s killed. Shorting out her lightsaber should give him all the opportunity he needs.

In the darkness, the scrape of rock is clear. Cody jerks around, raising the warblade, as violet light cuts through the darkness. His breath catches, and even as the stones shift, he’s moving. When Mace steps through, Cody catches his arm, getting his fingers on warm skin, and says, “What were you _thinking_?”

“That I liked you in your current shape,” Mace says dryly, and there's a long slash in the shoulder of his shirt, scorched from a lightsaber, but Cody can't make out the state of the skin under it. “And not needlessly crushed under several tonnes of stone.”

Cody swallows hard. Mace tossed him out of the way, deliberately leaving himself open to do it. Would have taken on two tangible ghosts just to keep them away from Cody, even though he couldn’t tell illusion from reality. That’s—

“You’re going to give me a _heart attack_ ,” he says. “Worse than Obi-Wan ever has.”

Mace gives him an unimpressed look. “Dooku was an illusion, then?” he asks, glancing back at the empty hall.

 _Three_ Sith ghosts, then, as far as Mace knew. Cody tells himself that he won't shake Mace. Won't grab him and push him against the wall and— “I didn’t see Dooku. Jinn’s ghost vanished when I shorted out his lightsaber.” When Mace raises a brow, Cody tips the warblade in explanation. “Cortosis.”

“Valuable,” Mace says, approving, and grimaces. “What are the chances you have bacta with you?”

Cody shakes his head. “Kix has all of it,” he says grimly. “The Sith?”

“Darth Nostrem,” Mace says, like it’s distasteful. “He vanished when I struck a killing blow. I doubt he’s gone permanently, though.”

“You know him?” Cody asks, surprised.

Mace snorts. “He talked about himself in third person,” he says.

Oh. That kind of asshole. Cody rolls his eyes, tightens his grip on Mace's arm, and takes a breath. “How bad?” he asks.

There’s a pause as Mace considers. “Not terrible,” Mace allows after a moment. “It’s cauterized. My range of motion will be affected, though.”

Cody wants to be mad that that’s the kind of thing he’s worried about, but—they're in danger, and it’s only logical to make sure he’s aware of any hindrances.

Still.

“We should keep moving,” he says, and lets his hand slip down into Mace's again. “Illusions?”

“Manageable now that you're touching me,” Mace says, like Cody can't see the tension easing out of his shoulders, just a little.

Cody wishes desperately that there was a better way. That he could help more, or do something permanent, but—this will have to be fine for now.

“Next time you toss me out of a fight, I'm going to start stealing all the covers,” Cody threatens. “ _Forever_.”

Mace's mouth curls, a warm shadow of a smile in the darkness. “Understood,” he says gravely.

 _I want to kiss you_ , Cody thinks, like a revelation, and it jars through him with a silver shock, bright and wrenching across his nerves. _I was worried, and I want to kiss you because you're safe now and_ here _._

Mace doesn’t pick up on the thought, and Cody looks away, desperate to push the feeling down.

Realizing he’s attracted to his husband shouldn’t be nearly this unsettling, he thinks, wry, and tries not to let the pace of his heart give him away in the darkness.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cliffhanger warning for this one, though I think it's milder than the last.

“Commands.” Luminara breathes, horror so thick she can hardly breathe through it. “They—they encoded commands into every trooper.”

Adi looks as grim as Luminara has ever seen her, and about as shaken. She folds her arms across her chest, tight, like she’s looking for comfort, and closes her eyes. “Well,” she says, flat, though the tone can't quite hide the edges to her voice. “Agen found out what the chips are for.”

“Sifo-Dyas wouldn’t have done this,” Luminara says, but it’s more a plea than a belief. She curls her hands together tightly, trying to even out her breathing, trying to understand, release, advance, but—

Control is almost impossible to find, in light of the files the med-droid sent them.

“We wouldn’t,” Odd Ball says, fierce, but his voice cracks. Nala Se’s files are spread out in the air between them, the careful detailing of the bio-chips, their purpose, their effect. Luminara doesn’t want to think of how the cloners _know_ , how many clones they must have tested the order on to be sure it worked correctly. A tangle of fury and grief surges, ready to swamp her, and without looking at her Adi takes one step over, drags Luminara into her side and curls an arm around her. It’s not right for a Jedi Master to be so out of control, but—

Luminara buries her face in Adi’s robes, feels the shake of Adi’s breath against her temple. She closes her eyes, curling her fingers into familiar rough brown cloth, and tries to marshal herself.

“Sir,” Odd Ball says, and it has more in common with a prayer than anything. “We _wouldn’t_. No brother would ever hurt the Jedi—”

Of course that’s his concern. Of _course_. It would be Gree’s, too, if he were here. Luminara wants to laugh, but if she does, there’s every chance she’ll cry, too.

“We know that,” Adi says, and the only sign of her distress is the press of her fingertips into Luminara’s back, just a little too hard. “That’s not our main concern, Odd Ball.”

“It _overwrites_ you,” Luminara says, and drags control back by her fingernails. Turns away from Adi, to face Odd Ball across the table, and the fear on his face makes something settle, steely, along her spine. “Odd Ball, if this order is used, the clones _disappear_. It’s worse than slavery. It’s—you’ll lose _everything_. All of yourself, just because of a _chip_. _That_ is our greatest concern. We can't see you destroyed like that.”

Odd Ball looks at her, at the files. “Back to factory settings,” he says, black humor in his voice. Takes a breath, then sinks down into one of the chairs, twisting his fingers into his hair. “I don’t—we _wouldn’t_.”

Adi sighs, soft, sad. She rounds the desk to curl a hand over the back of his neck, and says gently, “We all know that, Odd Ball. You and your brothers have saved our lives more times than anyone can count.”

“But _someone_ has a direct path into our heads,” Odd Ball says sharply. “Someone doesn’t care that we serve together. They give us one order and we’re going to think that all of you are traitors we need to _execute_.” His voice cracks again, and he looks up at Adi. “General, if we were flying, and someone activated that, we’d shoot you down. We wouldn’t even _realize_ that we shouldn't. It wouldn't even be _us_ at that point.”

“Yes,” Luminara says, soft. “A tragedy on many parts.”

“You…” Odd Ball closes his eyes. “You give us your backs. You _trust_ us. We guard _younglings_. We were made to serve the Jedi, to fight with you, and—now we’re meant to _execute_ you? Sir, this is—” He breaks off, like he can't even find the words.

“Horrific,” Adi finishes for him, grim, and glances at Luminara.

“It has,” Luminara says, with all the composure she can scrape together, “all the markings of the Sith Lord’s plan.”

Adi scowls, but inclines her head. “I thought the same thing,” she says.

“We need to get them out,” Odd Ball says. “All the chips, from every trooper. Then it doesn’t matter worth a kriff what that bastard wants.”

“There are too many,” Luminara says, and it twists, horrific, in her stomach, but—it’s logic. “We can't put every trooper in the GAR down for intensive brain surgery. Not only would the engineers of this plot notice immediately, and likely activate the order early, but the Separatists would overrun us. We’re barely holding as it is.” She presses her fingers to the edge of the desk, focusing, and says, “There must be a way to deactivate them. On Kamino, perhaps. If they could put the chips in place, there must be a way to turn them off.”

“Agen and Shaak wouldn’t have had time to look these files over,” Adi says, and her mouth tightens. “We can't trust this information over a comm, either. One of us is going to have to tell them in person.”

Luminara exchanges glances with her, torn. Wants to volunteer immediately, but—Barriss is here, and all of her men, and as her recent fight with Ventress proved, she’s better fighting as half of a whole, rather than alone. As much as she wants to head straight for Kamino and solve this problem, she knows her abilities, and how far they extend. Besides, Adi is the better pilot between them.

“Go, Adi,” she says firmly. “I’ll oversee things here, and continue the testing. Shaak and Agen could use your help.”

Adi doesn’t hesitate. She nods, sharp, and says, “Odd Ball, will you come?”

“You _want_ me to?” Odd Ball asks, disbelieving. “After all of this?”

Adi’s smile is crooked. “After you saved my life?” she asks, raising a brow at him. “Of course. I always feel better having you at my back.”

Odd Ball’s expression twists, but he nods. “I’ll round up the men,” he says roughly, and pushes to his feet. Pauses there, swallows, and says, “If you hadn’t found this, General—”

“Shaak and Agen receive the credit here,” Luminara says, wry. She smooths an edge of hair back under her headpiece, takes a breath. Can't imagine what led Shaak to this discovery, but she’s deeply, _desperately_ grateful nevertheless. “Adi. May the Force be with you.”

Adi snorts. “I think finding this has proved it is,” she says, then inclines her head to Luminara and sweeps out of the room, moving quickly. Odd Ball hesitates, looking after her and then glances at Luminara.

“You be careful too, General,” he says. “Maybe stick close to Commander Gree for a bit. He put men on Commander Offee, and—he can't exactly assign men to you, but I think he’d want to.”

Luminara considers objecting, weighs the flare of indignation against logic. She learned much the same lesson against Ventress, didn’t she? Assistance is never a bad thing to accept.

“I will,” she says. “Thank you, Odd Ball.”

“Thank _you_ , General.” Odd Ball’s smile is crooked, but he touches two fingers to his brow in quick salute and then takes off at a jog, following Adi.

Luminara breathes in. Smooths her headpiece back, collects herself, then takes a step forward. Decisively, she sends a message on to the rest of the council, vague enough that an intercept won't matter but alerting them to the fact that Adi is heading for Kamino, then closes Nala Se’s files and buries them in the depths of some of the more tedious council reports she’s been working on. Anyone looking for them won't even know where to start.

Then, head held high, she turns, leaves the office, and goes to find Gree. She’s a woman of her word, after all, and given his knowledge of what’s happening, it’s far better for him to be protected as well.

They can protect each other. It’s what they’ve been doing since the war started, and it’s not about to stop now.

“ _That_ doesn’t look good,” Cody says, mildly dismayed.

Mace, who was very much about to keep walking into what he thought was another illusion, stops short. Looks, suspicious, from the wide, depthless dark of the pool of water stretching out in front of them to the low ceiling of the tunnel, and grimaces. Even if he _could_ see the far side, there wouldn’t be nearly enough room for a Force-assisted leap.

“Not an illusion, I take it,” he says dryly.

Cody leans down, picking up a pebble, and tosses it out ahead of them, looking vaguely hopeful. Then, with a loud, echoing plop, the stone drops into the water, washing ripples back to the shore.

“No,” Cody says, resigned. “Apparently not.”

He sounds tired, Mace thinks. He hasn’t spoken much as they’ve been walking, not since the fight, but then, facing down a Jedi would be enough to unsettle anyone. He can feel the stir of Cody's thoughts, though he’s carefully kept them separate. Can feel some sort of confusion, but isn't about to press. Some emotions are best handled without interference.

“There’s a path,” he says, “unless that’s an illusion as well.”

Cody turns, following his gaze, and frowns. “I see it,” he agrees, and eyes the lake. “It’s pretty close to the water. Chances that something big is going to come out and try to eat us?”

“From everything we’ve seen on this planet so far?” Mace asks dryly. “High.” He considers for a moment, then eyes the narrow lip of stone that runs along the edge of the lake, and says, “At least it’s not magma.”

Cody snorts, some of the tension on his frame easing, if only slightly. “Yeah,” he says. “You know what? At this point, I’ll take it.”

“We’re learning to count our blessings,” Mace observes, bland. “Maybe this honeymoon was good for something after all.”

“I don’t think that two people who _can't_ own anything needed to learn that particular lesson,” Cody says, and takes a step forward—

The water ripples, out where he threw the stone, and something vast and dark surfaces. It’s huge, huge enough that Mace can only catch pieces of it, but yellow blister traps glow along its back, long spines skim the water around it, and a double set of red eyes blink open beneath the surface, glowing for half an instant before they close again. Then the thing sinks back beneath the surface, vanishing with a faint ripple of water, as soundless as a ghost.

“ _Heck_ ,” Cody says, pale.

Mace isn't feeling all that much better himself. “Maybe,” he says, “we should avoid the water. I think that was a sea leviathan.”

“I've never been so happy to be ignored,” Cody agrees, checks the lip of stone again, and asks, “We pass any branching paths?”

Silently, Mace shakes his head.

“Great,” Cody says with a sigh. “Well, at least we don’t have to take a boat across.”

“One thing I admire about you, Cody, is your unfailing ability to look on the bright side of everything,” Mace says, only a little dry.

Thankfully, Cody laughs a little. “No one would believe you if you told them,” he says. “Rex is the nice one. I'm the asshole.”

“We’re a perfect match.” Mace watches the water, looking for any more ripples, and then says, “It should be safe enough, as long as we don’t fall in.”

Cody doesn’t bother arguing. He steps up onto the ledge, having to turn sideways to keep his armor from scraping, and asks, “Jedi can kill these leviathans, right?”

“Eventually,” Mace allows, following him. The stone is slick, treacherous, and he has to pay careful attention to his footing. “It takes large groups, usually. Their hide resists lightsabers at first, and their ability to drain life makes them…tricky.”

“Tricky,” Cody repeats, pained. “Right. That’s what I would call them, too.” He pauses, and then takes a breath and asks, “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” Mace says, and it’s even true. “We’re getting farther from it, and the pull is going away.”

Relief flickers across Cody's face, and he nods. “Good. We’ve gone up far enough that we have to be getting closer to the surface, too.”

There are fewer illusions to drag him into their grip, too, but those that Mace sees are subtler, more confusing. He keeps his eyes on the white of Cody's armor in the glow of his lightsaber, not willing to give the leviathan any more opportunities than he already has. “I think we might be under the citadel.”

Cody pauses, surprised, and glances back, like he’s trying to judge how far they’ve come. “We have walked a ways,” he agrees. “If we beat Anakin into the citadel after all of this, I'm going to laugh.”

Unless Anakin got caught by something _very_ distracting, Mace can't imagine he hasn’t already made his way to the entrance at the very least. Of course, Anakin facing off against a Sith Lord is hardly the preferable outcome here, but—with any luck, he’s kept the safety of Kix and Fives in mind and stayed hidden.

“As long as nothing else beat him there,” he says, and Cody grimaces.

“Wouldn’t you feel that?” he asks. “I know Obi-Wan can, sometimes, when he’s in trouble.”

Mace snorts. “Thankfully for my sanity, I've never had any sort of training bond with Anakin,” he says dryly. “It wouldn’t work the same way for me.”

Cody's brows furrow, and it’s a reminder that, for all the clones were made for the Jedi, they know very little about them beside fighting styles. For the most part, Mace has found, they're more willing than the average Republic citizen to adjust to floating objects, precognition, and the agility of a loth-cat, but on the whole they don’t know about the Jedi as more than that. Mace has met some who take an interest and look into things on their own—Commander Havoc of the Rancor Battalion asked him for writings on the Jedi last time they were stationed together—but most don’t have the chance or the opportunity.

“Masters and padawans have a bond,” he says in explanation. “Mental, and usually deep. It aids in training, and in making sure the padawan won't be overwhelmed by the galaxy at large before they learn how to handle such things. Such bonds fade over time, but traces of them always linger.”

“Oh.” Cody considers for a moment. “So it’s not just blind faith that makes Obi-Wan so sure Anakin is alive when he’s in trouble. Or Anakin sure that Ahsoka is alive.”

Mace considers how to phrase his answer. Explaining the Force to someone not sensitive to it has always felt…inadequate when he tries, an exercise in frustration. Like summing up half of himself in a handful of words. “No,” he says slowly, “and yes.” At Cody's sound of faint exasperation, he snorts. “The Force isn't a voice in our heads. It’s _knowing_. It’s a thought you can't let go, or an impulse you follow without thinking. We channel it, and it works through us, but it’s very difficult to recognize immediately. Sometimes, blind faith is just letting the Force guide us.”

“And sometimes it’s someone being bullheaded?” Cody asks, amused.

“Frequently, when Skywalker and Kenobi are involved,” Mace mutters. The water to the left of them ripples, and he feels Cody tense, goes still. Pulls Cody back as tight against the wall as possible, and reaches out a hand, trying to feel for any minds close. There’s one below them, large and hungry, and Mace veils their presence from it, mutes its sense of their heat and makes it keep moving. This one isn't a leviathan; it doesn’t react to the touch of the Force, just keeps going, and Mace breathes out slowly in relief. “It’s gone,” he says shortly.

Cody takes his hand again, pointed. “I’d rather not have to jump in and save you from drowning if that leviathan feeds you an image of a piece of solid ground,” he says. “For the record.”

Mace snorts. “Noted,” he answers, and follows when Cody starts moving again.

“So there are Master-padawan bonds,” Cody says. “Any others? Is it a thing with Jedi?”

“Yes,” Mace confirms, faintly amused. “Jedi who are particularly close sometimes establish a mental connection. In friendship, or brotherhood, or as part of a romantic relationship. It’s their own choice, but such things can be helpful on missions as well.”

For a long moment, Cody is silent. Then, careful, he asks, “It doesn’t get to be too much? Always having someone else in your head?”

“No,” Mace says, quiet but certain. He couldn’t imagine cutting his connection to Depa completely, after all this time. Wouldn’t have wanted to even when it was a new thing. “It’s not that active. Just a sense of someone, like being able to see them out of the corner of your eye, no matter the distance between you.”

With a soft snort, Cody tips his head. “Like always having another clone around,” he says. “I’m sure I’ll appreciate that more after it’s not necessary.”

“Likely,” Mace agrees, wry. He glances out over the lake, and says, “The end of the war will be a change for all of us.”

There's a pause, and then Cody glances back, frowning. “You sound like you think it will be a bad change,” he says, careful.

Mace looks out over the dark water, flickers of tired old worries curling in his chest. He’s thought about this too much, but— “The Jedi were never supposed to be soldiers,” he says. “But we let the Senate order us into war, because there was no alternative. Now that it’s been done, I fear what our future will be. We can't remain peacekeepers when everyone only sees us as generals.”

Cody doesn’t answer for a long moment. Then, finally, he lets out a slow breath, the slant of his expression something wry. “And we were made to be soldiers and nothing else,” he says. “When the war’s over…I don’t know what’s going to happen to us.”

The Jedi at least have the structure of thousands of years to fall back on, to cling to. The clones don’t. It makes Mace curl his fingers just a little more tightly into Cody's, and he says, “The Jedi won't abandon you. Any of you. As long as there’s a place for the Jedi in the Republic, we’ll fight to make a place for you and your brothers as well.”

Cody isn't looking at him. Has his face turned away, deliberate, but the line of his shoulders is tight in the violet darkness. “I'm figuring that out,” he says, just a little wry. “You marrying me made it pretty clear how far you were willing to go.”

“It was you or Captain Rex,” Mace says, and—after seeing Rex and Obi-Wan interact on the trip to Ord Radama, he can't imagine it would have ended well, if they had tried to pull Rex into this. “Or Commander Colt. I have to say, I'm glad you're the one who agreed, Cody.”

That gets him a quiet snort, but Cody still isn't looking at him. “It was self-serving,” he says, frank. “Even if it didn’t work to free all the other clones, _I_ wanted to be free.”

“There’s no shame in that,” Mace says quietly. “Even if it doesn’t work, and you're the only one it helps, that makes it worth it.”

Cody huffs a laugh, rough and sharp-edged. “You Jedi are all crazy,” he says, but it almost sounds like a compliment.

Mace hums. “Would it surprise you that you're not the first person I've heard that from?” he asks.

“I’d be more surprised if I was,” Cody retorts, and then says, “Six steps down, right in front of me.”

Mace minds his footing on the slick stone, but beyond the stairs a much wider path opens out, enough to let them walk side by side again. Cody steps down—

As soon as his foot hits the stone, light kindles. All along the tunnel, wrought metal lanterns flare to life in a rush of leaping sparks, sending light sweeping down to mark the path. The reflections shimmer on the surface of the lake, but they only manage to make the water seem darker, the press of shadows around them heavier.

Still, it’s light. Mace hadn’t realized how much he missed it.

With a thought, he deactivates his lightsaber, clipping it to his belt, and glances around. The walls are smooth black stone, featureless, but it’s clearly a path that’s been used before. There's a wider half-circle of stone that juts out over the water, railed in except in one spot where it’s been left deliberately open to the water beyond. And, knowing the Sith—

“What do you want to bet we’re standing on an execution platform?” Cody asks grimly, clearly having the same thought.

Mace crouches down, pressing a hand to the stone, and he might not have Quinlan’s gifts, but even after a thousand years he can feel the echo of terror in the air here. “Nothing I’d care to lose,” he says, and straightens. “We should keep moving.”

Cody is watching him, curious. “You can feel something?” he asks. “Even after so long?”

Mace inclines his head. “Pain and fear fade slowly,” he says. “Especially when they’ve been imprinted into the Force. Jedi always feel such things.”

Cody winces faintly. “That why some planets give General Kenobi a headache the minute he sets foot on them?”

“Tragedies will do that,” Mace confirms. Every Jedi has felt it at one point or another, and it’s never pleasant.

There's a pause, and then Cody breathes out, rueful. “I don’t envy Fives getting tossed into all of this,” he says. “No offense.”

Mace feels an answering flicker of amusement. “It’s a gift like any other,” he says. “There are drawbacks. But those who have it have almost never been without it, so it can be hard for us to judge that for ourselves.”

“Oh.” Cody frowns, just a little. “I guess I hadn’t thought of that. Fives has always had some sense of it, then?”

Mace nods. “He may not have known it, but sensitivity to death, or to others’ emotions, or a sense of what was about to happen—that’s that Force.”

“Rex says he’s got an uncanny knack for dodging incoming fire,” Cody says thoughtfully. Pauses, and then says, “I wonder how many other clones have the same knack.”

“Enough that we should have found them before,” Mace says grimly. He starts down the wide walkway, Cody keeping pace, and tries not to consider how many doomed souls must have walked the same path over the centuries Kaas City was inhabited.

“You're finding them now,” Cody says firmly. “That has to be enough.” He glances ahead of them, considering, and then says, “Once we’re away from the water, we should take a rest. It has to be almost morning on the surface, and you didn’t sleep.”

The start of the night, facing Qui-Gon and seeing the ship, feels like it was days ago. The lack of sleep probably has something to do with that, Mace acknowledges wryly, and inclines his head in agreement. “An hour,” he says. “If that ship leaves before we make it back—”

“Getting to the ship won't matter if we kill ourselves doing it,” Cody says bluntly. “The others will keep it from taking off, if it comes to that.”

That, at least, is true, and if there’s one thing Anakin is good at, it’s causing chaos. Mace snorts, inclining his head, and says, “All right.”

There's a pause, startled. “Well,” Cody says after a moment. “That was more reasonable than I expected from a Jedi.”

“Not all of us are allergic to self-care the way Obi-Wan is,” Mace says dryly.

“Probably good for our future as a married couple,” Cody says. “I think Ponds would space me if you didn’t take _some_ care of yourself.”

“Ponds already relishes having you to use an excuse to make me stop working,” Mace says, resigned to his commander’s efforts. Ahead of them, the path curves out, stretching into a wide field that looks like it once could have held speeders, and he glances around, but doesn’t find any. Still, the open space will make it hard for anyone to sneak up on them, and he raises a brow at Cody in question.

“Along the wall?” Cody suggests. “Over there looks mostly dry.”

Given how much water is trickling down the other walls, Mace will gladly take _mostly_. He takes a step—

The word shifts, sharp, _wrenching_. Mace staggers before he can catch himself, foot skidding on a loose piece of stone, and hits the ground hard on one knee. The smell of burned flesh is immediate, making him recoil, and he feels his hand slip out of Cody's, hears the hum of a lightsaber igniting, and twists to his feet, his own lightsaber coming to his hand automatically as he takes a sharp step back.

He can't see Cody. All he can see is the Coruscant temple, blaster-fire burned into the once-pristine walls, the bodies of younglings scattered across the floor. Too many bodies, and horror surges in a chilling wash, making Mace's breath tangle in his throat.

Darth Nostrem, standing in the middle of the carnage, stares at Mace with wild eyes, teeth bared. “Don’t you _see_?” he taunts. “Don’t you see it, Jedi?”

“I see illusions,” Mace says. “I see a ghost who doesn’t know how to die.”

Nostrem laughs, like that’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. “I _did_ die,” he says. “I died because I was too skilled, too smart. Vitiate _knew_ , he knew I wouldn’t make it out of my own citadel.”

The Sith Emperor, Mace thinks. Ancient, terrible, almost immortal, and always cruel. “You built this citadel?” he asks, parsing out the meaning. “And then he had you entombed in it?”

“Locked behind my own defenses!” Nostrem laughs, and his lightsaber trembles. “Just like you will be, Jedi!” He turns, looking around them, and laughs again, ragged like he’s spent too long screaming for his voice to survive intact. “Do you see this? I do.”

The temple. It’s an illusion, Mace thinks, but—Nostrem is a ghost. Maybe he can enter it just as well as reality. “The temple,” he says, cool. “But it will never happen.”

Nostrem grins at him, all teeth and terror. “It _will_ , Jedi,” he says. “You see things. But not _just_ illusions. This—this is the _future_!”

Horror curls, cold and as sharp as a blade, in Mace's stomach. “No,” he says. Knows, without hesitation, that he’ll die to keep it from coming true. “The future isn't settled yet. It’s still only a possibility.”

“It won't matter,” Nostrem says carelessly. “You won't survive to make it back to the surface. No one ever has.” His face twists into a rictus grin behind his beard, and he laughs, spreads his hands. “Not even _me_ , and I built it!”

With a curl of power that vibrates _wrong_ across Mace's nerves, the smoke from the torches curls, spills downward and thickens. It hits the ground like a tangible thing, drags itself up on shifting arms and legs, dozens of ghosts made of black smoke and fiery eyes, and they reach for Mace with grins that echo Nostrem’s, wicked and ghoulish. Mace steps back, raises his lightsaber—

And freezes, realization striking. He can't see Cody. Any one of these could be hiding him, and Mace wouldn’t know. Could cut him down and never realize until the illusion breaks.

He can't risk it.

And then, out of the billowing smoke, there’s a cry. Mace turns, instinct bringing his blade up on one quick jerk, and a red blade collides with it. In the same motion, Mace shifts hard, leaps up and over, and drops down behind Nostrem. Sees the shatterpoint, a nexus of strong threads that meet in one fragile tangle, and drives his lightsaber down at it.

A blaster bolt knocks the blade right out of his hands. There’s a shout, but Mace can't tell where it’s coming from, whose voice it is. He turns—

Nostrem laughs, wild, and his lightsaber drives straight through Mace's shoulder from behind.

It very nearly doesn’t hurt, and the darkness that follows is a relief.


	28. Chapter 28

“Mace!” Cody cries, even as a shape falls, and lunges. In the warping shadows, the Sith turns, grinning—

Takes one look at the sword Cody swings for his head and _recoils_.

“You! Why do _you_ have that sword?” he shrieks, but Cody doesn’t pause, pushes forward with a sweep of the blade to drive him back. In the same moment the blaster fires again, and Nostrem hisses as it knocks him onto his heels. Cody slides in, slashes up with something like fury but colder in his stomach, and the red lightsaber drops to block.

Vanishes with a scattered hiss, and then Nostrem is gone, too.

“Commander!” a familiar voice cries, but Cody can't spare the attention. He shoves the warblade back into its sheath and throws himself to his knees beside Mace's crumpled form, heart pounding somewhere in the vicinity of his throat. Thinks, for just one second, of being wary, but—

Mace couldn’t tell it was him. That’s why the lightsaber was coming for his head. As long as Cody's touching him, it’s fine.

“Come on, Mace,” he says, rolling him over as carefully as he can. He saw the blade go through, but—where? The center of his chest? Somewhere Cody won't ever be able to fix? If Mace survived all the rest of this just to be brought down by some insane ghost, Cody's going to—to—

Something. He doesn’t know.

And then, careful against his palm, he can feel a breath.

“ _Kriff_ ,” Cody says, and the curse is all relief, as sharp as broken glass. He tugs at Mace's tunics, straightening them enough to find the charred hole, and—it’s small. Lightsaber wounds always are, when they go straight through. If Cody remembers all the yelling Shank’s done, though, this one seems like it’s in mostly non-vital places, and Mace is Human, even if the people of Haruun Kal are a little different than baseline.

“Commander,” Fives says, and he hits the ground across from Cody on one knee, still holding his blaster, eyes wide and worried. “Should you—the general tried to _decapitate_ you—”

“Something down here’s got him seeing things,” Cody says, and checks for Mace's pulse. He’s had to do that far too frequently for comfort, this trip. “He didn’t know it was me.” Pauses, registering the shot that took Mace's lightsaber out of his hands, and adds, rueful, “Nice aim.”

“I wasn’t about to _shoot_ a _general_ ,” Fives says, and grimaces as he shoulders his blaster, helping Cody get Mace flat on his back. “Who was the weirdo in black?”

“Sith ghost,” Cody answers, most of his attention on the wound. Lightsaber wounds cauterize, but that’s not going to help much here, not without—

Fives shoves a pouch full of bacta pads at his face, and says, “Okay, you know how to use these, right? Because if I manhandle a general, I don’t think he’d take it well.”

“His husband might not, either,” Cody says dryly, but he takes the patches with relief. The gel would be a hell of a lot better, but Cody's not about to turn down any help. The patches will do for now.

“Can I help?” a soft voice asks, and behind Fives there’s a step. An older Human woman comes into view, and Cody goes tense, ready to grab Mace away from her, ready to draw his sword—

“She’s fine, Commander,” Fives says quickly, raising his hands like he’s going to fend Cody off. “She was wandering around the tunnels, she helped me find you. This is Shmi.”

Yeah, Cody's going to trust that about as far as he can throw a wampa. He eyes her, and Shmi eyes him right back, then lifts her chin. It’s a familiar motion, one Cody's definitely seen echoed with someone else’s face, and he frowns.

“I just want to find a way off this world, sir,” Shmi says evenly. “I woke up here, in some sort of throne room, but—this isn't where I'm supposed to be.”

Right. Because that isn't suspicious at all. Cody looks from her to Fives, then sighs. If she helped Fives find them without sticking a lightsaber in his back, that’s probably a good start. “Cody,” he says shortly. “Fives and I have got him, but thanks.”

Shmi inclines her head, looking relieved, and keeps back as Cody starts to undo Mace's tunics. He keeps one eye on her, but—

“Whatever you're thinking of saying,” he tells Fives, who has a look on his face that’s _exactly_ like Rex when he’s desperately restraining a comment that will likely get him punched, “I don’t care if Mace has a soft spot for you. I’ll toss you in the lake and let you play with the leviathan.”

Fives makes a wounded noise, raising his hands. “I wasn’t going to say it!” he protests. “But, uh, you're pretty good at undoing Jedi robes, sir—”

Cody leans over and smacks him, right above the ear. Fives yelps, ducking away, and Cody shifts to follow, only to have a hand close around his wrist, fingertips pressed tight to his pulse.

Instantly, Cody abandons his revenge against impertinent almost-shinies and jerks back, twisting his hand to catch Mace's. “Mace,” he says, and presses a hand over the uninjured side of his chest, holding him in place. Under his palm, through the thin cream fabric of the tunic, he can feel Mace's heartbeat, and it settles something in his own chest to know it’s still beating steadily. “You’re awake.”

Mace grimaces, but his eyes slide open, and he stares up at Cody for a long moment. Pauses, then closes his eyes again, and the breath that drags out of him is raw, grim. “It was you,” he says. “I'm sorry.”

“Cortosis-covered sword, remember?” Cody says, ignoring the fact that he definitely wasn’t prepared for Mace to turn like that, for the lightsaber falling at his head. It’s fine. Mace didn’t know, and Cody would forgive anyone for making that mistake with a Sith creature in their heads. Especially since the blow didn’t actually land. “I was fine. Fives just got there before I could.”

“Fives,” Mace repeats, and opens his eyes. Immediately, Fives leans over him, offering an awkward wave and a grin he probably wants to think is charming.

“General Windu,” he says. “Sorry for shooting you, I really didn’t mean it.”

Mace snorts, but doesn’t move beyond a faint shift to help Cody free his sash. “I'm glad you did,” he says. “Where is your general?”

“Back up in the citadel,” Fives says. “I—we felt you disappear, and—there were guards on the citadel, so I distracted them and came to find you. I figured you were in trouble.”

Carefully, Cody presses one of the bacta patches over the burn in Mace's shoulder, grimacing faintly when he hears his harsh inhale. “Sorry,” he murmurs. “Can you sit up?”

Mace doesn’t answer, but he grimly pushes upright. Cody helps him, steadying him as he slumps forward, and pulls his tunic down a little further, wanting to frown at the neat round burn that’s visible from the back as well. He eases the patch over it, sealing the edges carefully, and says, “Kix will be able to do more, but—this should help with the pain, at least.”

“It does,” Mace says, and when Cody curls his hand into Mace's, his expression slides towards relief. Cody tightens his grip, and it feels like his heart is still up in his throat, too close, too fast. He doesn’t let go, but braces Mace where he is, and tries not to think about what would have happened if Fives hadn’t shown up. It wouldn’t have been the end of him, because he’d just have had to touch Mace again to break the illusion, but—

It wouldn’t have been great, that’s for sure. And Cody might have come out of it a limb or two short, given Mace’s skill.

“You’re all right?” Mace asks quietly, and his expression is grim, dark around the edges in a way Cody hates as Mace watches him.

“I’m fine,” Cody says. “Don’t give yourself that much credit. I can handle myself.”

The very faintest hint of amusement curls Mace’s mouth, then fades just as quickly. “I saw a shatterpoint,” he says. “In you.”

“Shatterpoint?” Fives asks, thankfully; Cody didn’t want to have to, at least in front of company. Given that they’re married, he should probably know things like that.

“The weakest point of something,” Mace says, but his gaze hasn’t shifted from Cody. “Or a place where one action can change the future.”

That sounds like the weak points that are how he can beat the Sith Lord. And—he saw one in Cody? Cody frowns, trying to work that out. “ _I’m_ going to change the future?” he asks. “Or you just saw where I would break?”

Mace’s mouth thins, as if he wants to object to the wording. It’s not something Cody’s going to apologize for, though; he knows how to break a droid, knows how to break another person, and that’s what it is. He doesn’t let himself forget it, even if he’s just a clone soldier. Maybe _because_ he’s just a clone soldier.

“I don’t know,” he says finally. “I can't trust anything I saw.”

Cody frowns. There’s an objection on the tip of his tongue, some touch of suspicion that the logic there doesn’t quite work out, but he can't put it into words. Instead, setting it aside for later, he nods, and says, “If Fives made it down here, we can't be too far from the surface.”

 _Can you make it_ is a stupid question in light of their situation. Cody knows how he’d react to being asked that, and it isn't favorably. Still—

“I don’t think this honeymoon agrees with you,” he says, a little too honest in the feelings underneath. Doesn’t let go of Mace's hand, but feels the breath Mace huffs out, halfway between rueful and amused.

“Given the amount of bacta I'm going need, I think that’s a safe assumption.” Mace puts a hand to his shoulder for just a moment, then looks up. His gaze settles on Fives for a moment, then slides past, right to Shmi, and he pauses.

“Not an illusion,” Cody says, almost soundless, close to his ear.

Mace's nod is almost imperceptible, but the trace of his thumb over Cody's knuckles in thanks spreads sparks of sensation across his skin. “I didn’t expect to see other people on Dromund Kaas,” Mace says evenly.

“Dromund Kaas?” Shmi asks, frowning. “I've never heard of it before. That’s where we are?”

Mace inclines his head. “It’s a lost system,” he says. “All records of it were erased in the waning days of the Sith Empire.” He doesn’t ask, but the weight of his attention is question enough.

Shmi doesn’t waver, just meets his eyes as she folds her arms around herself. “I woke up here,” she says. “In a room off one of the tunnels. Everything was dark, but there was no one there, so I ran.”

She got herself out, immediate and unhesitating. Cody can admire that kind of instinct, provided she’s telling the truth. He glances at Mace, trying to read his reaction on his face, and—

He’s wearing a strange expression. Nothing immediately alarming, but his eyes are faintly narrowed, and he looks at Shmi like he’s seeing something the rest of them can't. Well. Something _Cody_ can't, given that Fives apparently can touch the Force. Cody's still adjusting to that.

“I'm Mace Windu,” Mace says after a moment. “Jedi Master.”

Shmi's eyes widen, hope flickering in her expression. “Jedi,” she repeats. “I—I'm Shmi.”

“Shmi Skywalker,” Mace finishes for her, and she smiles.

“Yes,” she says, and the note of hope has turned into a backbone of steel in her words. “You know my son, then.”

Cody stares. Turns his incredulous gaze from Mace to Shmi to Fives, who seems equally bewildered by this revelation. Clearly he didn’t ask for a family name, because his mouth is open, and he looks kind of like someone just whacked him over the head.

“Wait wait wait. Like _General_ Skywalker?” he demands. “You’re General Skywalker's _mom_?”

Shmi smiles, and suddenly Cody can see it. She’s quieter than Anakin, more worn, but there’s an echo of him in her face that’s impossible to unsee now. He pauses, startled, and feels more than sees Mace's steady, resigned breath.

“He certainly wasn’t a general last time I saw him,” Shmi says, “but yes. Anakin is my son.” Her gaze flickers to Mace, and she asks more quietly, “Is he all right?”

“He was when we separated,” Mace says, and nothing more. Cody approves; there’s no way she’s _not_ some kind of trap for Anakin, whether she knows it or not.

“Good.” Shmi lets out a breath, then inclines her head. “He was so distraught, after the Sand People. I thought—” She hesitates, then shakes her head. “I’m glad that he moved on.”

Mace shifts, and Cody moves just a beat behind him as he realizes Mace's intention. Carefully, he gets an arm around his back, pulls him up onto his feet, and steadies him there with a light hand. Mace nods his thanks, holding out a hand to call his lightsaber back to him, then brushes off the casing and clips it to his belt again.

“I was under the impression that you were on Tatooine,” he says to Shmi.

The curve of Shmi's mouth is rueful. “I thought so, too,” she says. “The last thing I remember is Anakin rescuing me from the Sand People who raided my husband’s homestead. After that—I woke up here.”

Cody glances at Mace, wary, and finds that Mace doesn’t look all the much more settled. There's something they're missing here, and he doesn’t like it. Even so, Mace inclines his head, and says, “If we can get to the citadel and meet up with the rest of our party, they should have a way off this planet. Fives, can you show us the way you got down here?”

“Yes, sir,” Fives says with a good amount of relief. “The tunnel up is this way, and it should be clear. There weren’t any zombies that I saw.”

“Zombies?” Shmi asks, startled, but she follows Fives back towards the far side of the wide area without looking back.

Cody tightens his grip on Mace's hand just a little, watching them go, and glances over at Mace. “That’s not going to end well,” he says.

“Yes,” Mace agrees, grim. “Especially since I was given to understand that Shmi Skywalker died right before the Battle of Geonosis.”

Yeah, Cody thinks, with a definite sinking feeling. Not going to end well _at all_.

“I'm really, really tired of this planet,” he says, and Mace snorts quietly, leaning on him for just a moment. Cody leans back, utterly, perfectly relieved that Nostrem’s blade didn’t strike three inches over, or any lower. Mace's arm is going to be mostly useless until they can get him to Kix, but—

But he’s alive. That’s a lot better than Cody was expecting when he saw him fall.

“What do we do about her?” Cody asks quietly. “General Skywalker's not going to be able to think about this clearly.”

“No,” Mace says with a breath that’s almost a sigh. “Anakin won't, but—if she is alive, and she’s here, we can't leave her.”

“Even though the odds are she’s another ghost?” Cody asks, frowning.

Mace inclines his head. “If there’s a chance she’s innocent in this, we can't do anything else,” he says. Then he pauses, watching Fives turn to ask Shmi something, and Shmi cover a smile as he waves a hand, and lets out a slow breath. “She feels…different,” he says after a moment.

“Dangerous?” Cody asks, and wonders if he can get away with walking around with the warblade drawn, just in case.

But, startlingly, Mace shakes his head. “The opposite,” he says. “She feels like a light, but…muted. Caught in a fog.” His mouth curves, just faintly. “Qui-Gon was convinced, when he found Anakin, that Anakin was wholly a child of the Force, conceived without help. And seeing Shmi—I find myself willing to believe it.”

Conceived without help. No test tubes involved, then, and no man. Cody eyes Shmi, then Mace, and asks with a touch of resignation, “What are the odds that she’s a lesbian and just didn’t want to tell her son?”

Mace's raised eyebrow speaks _volumes_.

“Yeah,” Cody says on a sigh. “With all due respect to the Jedi Order, the Force is a _headache_.”

Mace is laughing at him, silent and without letting it show on his face. Cody can _feel_ it. He jabs Mace lightly in the side in retaliation, then says, “If you're finished making fun of me for a perfectly normal reaction, we should catch up before Shmi eats Fives or something.”

“I would never make fun of you,” Mace says. Mace _lies_.

“And my mother wasn’t a cloning vat,” Cody says, unimpressed. “Keep it up and I'm going to demand a divorce. One story about our honeymoon and any court would agree with me.”

Mace's weight on his shoulder is warm and steady. “I think technically Anakin is the one who selected our honeymoon destination.”

“Well, at least we can make him pay for a better one and not feel guilty,” Cody mutters, and turns his hand in Mace's, slotting their fingers together. “Don’t let go this time, okay?”

“I won't,” Mace says quietly, and Cody nods, willing to take him at his word.

“Who the _hell_ ,” Kix whispers, “has the authority to get _Commander_ _Fox_ as a guard?”

Anakin presses him deeper into the shadows, not about to try to use a Force suggestion on a clone who’s probably already being heavily controlled. There’s a sick, unsettled feeling in the pit of his stomach as he watches Fox and one of his men sweep the hall, blasters in their hands. “Two regular commanders was bad enough,” he agrees grimly. “But if Fox is here, instead of on Coruscant—”

Kix nods, and Anakin can't see his face through his helmet, but he’s tense, angry, worried. Nothing gets at Kix like seeing other clones hurt, and Anakin lays a hand over his arm, more than able to understand but also not willing to rush out and jump two well-armed clones when they’re technically supposed to be sneaking.

“Two commanders and a lieutenant,” Kix says. “That’s Lieutenant Thire. And if Rys is here, Jek probably is, too. They're usually stationed together.”

At least five shock troopers, then, all heavily armed, all skilled. The Coruscant Guard might not be a front-line posting, but they're in charge of the security of thousands of senators every day, and threats to all of Coruscant, not to mention everyday crime, and they're not lightweights. Anakin pulls a face, sinking back against the dark wall, and watches the two troopers round the far corner. “They look like they know where they're going,” he says. “Whoever’s controlling them knows this place, I’d bet.”

That’s already a bad sign. Whoever has the authority to commandeer a Coruscanti diplomatic ship was going to be high-ranking, but to be able to vanish with some of the Guard’s top soldiers? If it wasn’t authorized, someone would have noticed. Which means it _was_ , and there are only a handful of people in the Senate with that level of importance.

That unsettled feeling is getting worse, but Anakin clamps down on it, strangles it. Looks back the way Fox and Thire came, and says grimly, “I think we’ve scouted as much as we can. We’re going to need Fives, Thorn, and Rys if we’re going to pull this off with so many other guards around.”

Not to mention the Sith Lord themselves. Anakin can _feel_ them, the itch under his skin that’s thrilling and horrifying in equal measure. It’s like the moment after the Tusken Raider camp, the high of revenge before the sick realization of what he’d done set in.

Obi-Wan always told him that using the Dark Side was like giving up while treading water, letting yourself start to sink instead of trying to keep yourself afloat. Anakin doesn’t want to understand the analogy, but—

He does. All too well, sometimes.

It’s not just the Dark here, though. There's a nexus of something terrible, a black beating heart in the distance that Anakin's never quite been able to put out of mind, but there’s a spark of light, too. It’s bright, warm, burning in the earth beneath the citadel, and the contrast of it makes the Dark seen darker, the shadows deeper. Makes it easier to recognize the creep of thoughts turning where Anakin doesn’t want them to, and he’s trying his hardest not to turn his attention away from it for that reason.

“You think you can free them, sir?” Kix asks quietly, worried. Anakin feels the flare of his fear, the way he marshals it a moment later, the way he steels himself for a loss, and has to breathe through the emotion. Kix is a medic, and even more than the other clones, he cares. Allows himself the space for it, more than anything; Anakin's felt how Rex cares, too, but Rex is a captain, puts his duty first. Kix's whole duty is to save his brothers, though, and the weight of it is like a heartbeat, constant and steady.

It helps, most of the time. The deeper the war takes them, the more Anakin looks for Kix's unfaltering care, Rex's fierce determination. Obi-Wan is always in his head, a sense of calm and stability that he doesn’t think he could bear losing, but—the clones are closer. Less controlled. It helps him control himself more, even if it should be contradictory.

“Of course I can, Kix,” he says, and lets go of him, slipping out into the hallway. Tips his head, and Kix follows without hesitation, tailing him back towards the main doors. The whole citadel is deathly quiet, the press of the silence enough to make Anakin's skin crawl, but at least that makes it easy to listen for anyone coming.

Mace's absence in the Force gapes, like a wound. Something in Anakin is surprised, because of all the people he’d thought it would hurt to lose, Mace Windu wasn’t among them. And yet—

(Mace got married. Mace is _in love_ and there’s nothing wrong with it. He admitted it openly, didn’t protest Anakin's presence, is only hiding it from Obi-Wan. And Anakin can at least understand that, given how much Obi-Wan cares about Cody.

It’s so _weird_. Anakin would have thought Mace was the last person to feel anything for anyone, but—

He thinks of him with Fives, with Cody. Of the way he answered Ahsoka's questions, and even some of Anakin's. Anakin has had one impression of him for so long, and no reason to change it, but Kix and Fives see something different. _Cody_ sees something different. Maybe they’ve been fooled, or…

Anakin doesn’t want to think he was wrong. Doesn’t even want to face the idea. But Obi-Wan likes Mace, right? And he’s never led Anakin completely wrong before.)

The sight of the doors is almost a relief, honestly. Anakin just wants to stop _thinking_.

When they slip back out into the dim square around the citadel, there’s no sign of movement, no trace of the guards. Anakin can sense their minds, though, quiet and at rest; he’d shoved them deeper into unconsciousness as he passed, hoping that would be enough to keep Fives safe until he could get back, because their minds were too clouded to deal with immediately. But—

“Fives isn't here,” Anakin says with a frown, a flicker of worry rising. Rex is _particularly_ fond of Fives, and if something happened to him—

“What?” Kix asks, alarmed, and immediately heads around the edge of the citadel at a jog. Anakin follows quickly, one hand close to his lightsaber, but—there’s no sense of panic in the air, no fear, nothing Dark. Just an absence, the same sort of empty space what opened up where Mace was just a few hours ago.

Unease crystallizes into dismay, and Anakin casts his mind out, looking for the individual flame that marks Fives in the Force. He comes up empty-handed, though.

Fives is gone.

He left them a present, however. Kix hits the ground on his knees, right next to Thorn and Rys, and quickly pulls their helmets off, tugging his scanner out of his kit. Anakin crouches next to him, and as soon as Kix murmurs, “Just unconscious, sir,” he nods and reaches out, cupping Thorn’s temples. Closes his eyes, and—

Whoever is inside the citadel, they don’t give a damn about the clones they're using. There are traces of Force suggestions in Thorn’s head, so many that Anakin can hardly pick through them, so strong it’s outright control that no one but a strong Jedi could have resisted. Dark, gaping spots scatter the surface of his mind, craters where whole days have been ripped out and uncaringly patched over. Anakin has to swallow, pulling back, and—

A Sith did this. There’s absolutely no doubt.

“Sir?” Kix asks, concerned.

“I can fix him,” Anakin says in answer, and draws in a breath. He’s not a Healer, isn't anywhere close to a Mind Healer, but—he can root out the Dark, try to steady Thorn enough that he’ll make it back to someone who _can_ help him, without falling victim to the Sith again. “He doesn’t have any idea why he’s here. Someone just gave him an order, and then _made_ him follow it.”

Kix's breath is soft, steady. “You’ll help him, sir,” he says, and the unwavering faith makes Anakin swallow. He can. He has to.

The Sith who started this war is manipulating these men. Anakin can save them.

There's no way he won't.

Thorn shifts under his hands, expression twisting with discomfort. Quickly, Kix grabs his arms, holding him still, and Anakin nods his thanks, then focuses again. Carefully, as gently as he can, he picks out Dark threads of control, unweaving the stitches that hold Thorn to his post, forced blindly to the will of someone else, beaten-obedient in a way that curls like rage through Anakin's veins.

Too familiar. Too raw. Anakin forces the feelings down and touches Thorn’s last memory as he tries to steady the trooper’s increasingly pained thoughts.

Gets a flicker, as quick as the flash of a knife, of a familiar office, Commander Fox in front of him. Feels the salute, the weight of the armor, the thread of ice-edged nerves at facing someone so high-ranking—

With a sharp sound, Anakin jerks back, wrenching his hands away from Thorn’s head. His heart is pounding like he just dodged a blaster bolt with a fraction of a moment to spare, and there’s a knot in his chest that feels like a hand around his throat.

It doesn’t do anything to blunt the memory of Sheev Palpatine rising to his feet, smiling the way he always smiles at Anakin. Doesn’t stop the image, tattered around the edges, of yellow eyes, and a too-familiar voice saying, “Commanders. Thank you for volunteering for this mission.”

And then—

Darkness. Just Darkness, and nothing else at all.

It can't be true. It _isn't_. But—

The memory hasn’t been altered. Swept aside, covered under a careless layer of misdirection to keep it from anyone not digging through Thorn’s mind, but it’s intact.

It’s real. And Anakin has no idea what to do with that knowledge.

There's no time to decide, either. In the distance, nearing quickly, a hum like an approaching speeder rises, and Anakin grabs Kix, grabs Thorn and Rys with a touch of the Force, and drags them all into the deepest fall of shadows as the vehicle comes to a stop in the center of the square. 


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sexuality is Jedi ladies being badass and I'm not afraid to admit it.

None of the clones feel the same in the Force. It was a surprise to realize that, in the aftermath of the battle on Geonosis, but­—logical, once Luminara had considered it for a few moments. They’re all unique souls, even if their genetic makeup is almost the same, and the Force reflects that. After so long serving with Green Company, Luminara can close her eyes and find each one of them, even on a chaotic battlefield. She knows them, immediate and instinctive, and their presence will never mean anything less than safety to her.

The Jedi have always found safety in their temples, in each other’s company. How strange to know that, in the midst of a war, they found safety in the midst of the fighting, in men made for combat but suited for so much more.

Gree’s presence, more than any other, is as familiar as the hilt of Luminara’s lightsaber, worn into her soul. He feels like dust motes drifting in sunlight, like the deep, quiet peace of an aged and stalwart archive, and she follows her sense of him through the halls of the medical station, across long bays and down into the depths of the engines. The corridors here are tight, narrow, and mazelike, and Gree is tucked away near the very center, holding steady at the heart of the labyrinth.

With a sense of growing unease, Luminara follows the turns of the corridors, passing private rooms, long-term care facilities. Gree went after the trooper in the hangar, and it’s been hours now. She would have expected him to come and find her immediately, but—

“Master Unduli,” a rumbling voice says from one of the side halls, and Luminara pauses. Maybe it’s simply nerves, but there’s a prickle down her spine that feels like alarm. Feels like facing Ventress in the darkness, and seeing that red blade ignite.

Just shadows, she tells herself, and turns, inclining her head to the Besalisk approaching. “Master Krell,” she says formally, and takes a step back to give him space to pass. “I heard you were wounded in the fighting. Have you recovered?”

“Of course,” Krell says, but he’s frowning, and that prickle comes again.

Rage, Luminara thinks. What she feels is rage, and it’s not her own.

“Have you seen the Council’s recent report?” Krell asks, and it’s almost a demand.

Luminara weighs her response for a moment, eyeing him up and down. Krell has never been an obsequious man, but this is blunt even for him. “I hardly need to see it, Master Krell,” she reminds him gently. “I was the one who wrote it, after all, as I sit on the Council.”

“It _can't_ be correct,” Krell bites out. “No clone has ever presented as Force-sensitive in my companies. Ti must be mistaken.”

“Master Ti is a wise Jedi, with more experience than most,” Luminara says, even. She has to tip her head up to meet Krell’s eyes, but she doesn’t hesitate, lets composure settle and folds her hands into the sleeves of her robe. “She oversaw the running of the tests on her new padawan personally. There’s no chance she was wrong.”

“A clone can't be a padawan,” Krell says bluntly. “They’re grown in a _lab_. The Force wouldn’t touch one of them.”

“It’s not for you or I to say what the Force will do,” Luminara tells him firmly. It’s a lesson even Barriss has learned, but—some Jedi could stand to be reminded of it, clearly. “Padawan Tup is Force-sensitive, and shall be trained accordingly. These are the facts of the matter, Master Krell.”

Krell scoffs, one set of his arms folding over his chest. “There are no aberrant clones among my troops,” he says. “I won't have them tested.”

“The ability to feel the Force is a gift, Master Krell,” Luminara says, and it’s rather harder than it should be to keep her voice from slanting into something sharp. “It is an easy thing to overlook in those untrained when not paying attention, as well. A simple test for midichlorians takes little time, and if there are clones with Jedi potential, we are honor-bound to offer them training. It will not interfere with your missions.”

Krell scowls at her, and the prickles curl down Luminara’s limbs, settle against her spine. Rage, she thinks again, and has to steel herself against it. “Then I will take care of it aboard my cruiser,” he says dismissively. “And report the findings.”

Luminara frowns at him in return. “The station’s systems are far superior,” she reminds him. “And beyond that, Master Krell, Master Gallia and I have already scheduled your men for testing in the next two cycles. Given that you will be here at least another six cycles, it shouldn’t interfere.”

There's a long pause. Krell’s eyes narrow, and Luminara meets his gaze, unwavering.

She doesn’t like this. Jedi don’t discriminate. They come from all species and planets, from cultures that are traditionally at war and peoples that refuse other contact with the rest of the galaxy. There’s no space for biases, no tolerance of them; to be peacekeepers, they must always be impartial, at peace. Judging clones for their method of creation sits _wrong_.

“I refuse,” Krell says finally. “It’s insanity. Clones can't be Jedi.”

“Anyone may be a Jedi,” Luminara says, and the sense of Krell narrows, focuses in a way that makes her straighten, chin lifting. “And I'm afraid you don’t have a choice, Master Krell. This is an order from the Council. Your men are to be tested.”

The silence stretches between them for a long, long minute. When Krell doesn’t seem about to respond, Luminara inclines her head, satisfied that she’s made her point, and steps past him.

And then, behind her, there’s a breath. Krell takes once pace forward, and there’s something dark and cold in his voice when he says, “Master Unduli. What a shame I caught you attempting to sabotage the engines.”

Ice curls its way through Luminara’s veins, and under the draping cloth of her sleeves, she curls her fingers into fists. “Master Krell,” she says, a warning. “Explain that statement.”

The double hum of two lightsabers igniting is far too loud in the quiet hall. “I don’t need to explain myself to a traitor,” Krell says, and he sounds pleased, tone low as he shifts. “I caught you in the act and was forced to put an end to you. Truly tragic. And in the commotion, the station was damaged irreparably. So many clones lost.”

There's no one close, no one approaching. Luminara fixes her eyes on the end of the hall, breathes out. Gree is ahead of her, with another trooper, but not close enough to be in danger.

And to think, Odd Ball believed it was the clones who could be a threat to her.

“This is not the Jedi way,” Luminara says, and turns to face Krell smoothly, dropping her hands from her sleeves. She doesn’t reach for her lightsaber, even though Krell has his lit and waiting.

“The Jedi have _lost_ their way,” Krell growls. “ _Lab specimens_ as Jedi! And you don’t even see the way this war is turning. There’s a _new_ order coming, a new rule for this galaxy, and I’ll see it brought to life.”

Deliberately, Luminara rests her hand on the hilt of her lightsaber, watching him. “Your men,” she says, the realization curdling, dark and grim, in the center of her chest. “Your casualty counts. How many lives did you throw away needlessly, Krell?”

Krell scoffs. “Needlessly? Ha! I won those battles for the Republic. What do a handful of cloned organisms matter? They can always grow more.”

“They are _men,_ ” Luminara says, and thinks, for one instant, that she can understand all too well the use of Vaapad in a fight. Channeled fury, and right now she wants nothing more.

She’s a Jedi, though, and the rage is nothing but a distraction. Deliberately, deftly, she bleeds it out into the Force, breathes through it, and lifts her chin. Draws her lightsaber, stepping back into one of the opening forms of Djem So. Soresu is her strength, but against another lightsaber user the disadvantage is too great.

Her duel with Ventress taught her that more than clearly enough, forced her to grow. She would never have expected that a fellow Jedi would be her next opponent.

“They're weapons,” Krell counters, and his grin shows _teeth_. “Weapons to be deployed and discarded, like any other.” Twisting the lightsaber in his left hand, he considers her, and then laughs roughly. “You’re only one half of a whole, Master Unduli. Without another person here, your skill is cut in half, and I am twice the opponent at the best of times.”

Ego, Luminara thinks coolly. Ego and anger and a clear disregard for life. This isn't a true Jedi facing her. “I think you’ll find that I am more than Jedi enough,” she says, and twists. Krell’s thrust misses her by the span of a finger, deflected off her green blade, and Luminara drives through it, pulls the Force around her like a shroud of strength and sweeps her lightsaber right towards Krell’s second ‘saber. Their blades crash together, and Luminara catches the movement of the other out of the corner of her eye, drops low, and sweeps out a foot, slamming the heel of her boot into Krell’s ankle with all the force she can bring to bear.

With a shout, Krell leaps sideways, and Luminara surges to her feet, catches his wrist as the blue ‘saber descends, blocks the green with her own—

A fist catches her square in the face, and with a cry she’s thrown back into the wall. Hits hard, slides down, then rolls to her feet just in time to deflect Krell’s blade. Something wet trickles down her face, and her headpiece is askew, but she ducks Krell’s third fist, leaps back, and turns to let another thrust miss her. Twists around it, gets a foot on the wall, and leaps, flipping up and over his head and down. Krell spins, fast for all his bulk, but Luminara is faster; she deflects a fist with her forearm, kicks a second fist aside, dodges the green blade, and catches the hand holding the blue ‘saber. Takes a hit that glances off her ribs, ignoring the pain, and thrusts her blade up.

With a howl, Krell recoils, green lightsaber flying from his fingers. The two halves of it clatter down the hall, sliding to a stop on the metal flooring, and Luminara smiles thinly.

“You are just as sloppy as Ventress,” she says, and settles into a ready stance again, lightsaber raised. “And your arrogance is even worse. There is nothing about you that deserves the title of Jedi, Pong Krell.”

Clutching his useless hand to his chest, Krell hisses. “ _My_ arrogance?” he demands. “Look to your own, Unduli. You think you know everything! You think you can control this war! But there’s an empire rising that no one will be able to stop, and I plan to be part of it. An empire with _real_ Jedi, and no need to weigh _sentiment_ against reality.”

“Sentiment is our greatest strength,” Luminara says coolly. “I would call it _empathy_.”

Krell snarls, and in a blur he lunges. Luminara goes low, twisting past the lightsaber as it skims along her own, rising hard and sweeping her blade up. Sees the fist, just within reach of her, and sidesteps it, bringing her blade back around to block the next blow. Sees the flare of Krell’s cloak, and with a sharp gesture she hauls his hood up over his head and down over his eyes. In the half-second of his distraction, she slaps a hand against his chest, one hard blow with the Force behind it, and shoves him back into the wall of the corridor so hard that the metal buckles.

She isn't quite fast enough to dodge the wild lash of his lightsaber, though, and cries out as it scores a long slash though her robes, skimming skin with the awful ache of cauterized skin. The pain makes her stagger, and she has to catch herself on the wall before her vision steadies again.

With a ragged cry, Krell tumbles to his knees, then staggers up, breathing hard. “You fight the inevitable,” he snarls, and shoves his hood back. “You're no match for me, Unduli.”

Luminara smiles, pushing herself up. Her side aches, the wound pulling unpleasantly, but it doesn’t matter. There are more important things at stake here. “Ventress said the same to me,” she says, “and yet here I stand.” Deliberately, she wipes the blood from her face, straightens her headpiece. “Surrender, Krell. The Jedi will show mercy.”

Krell’s expression twists, a sneer. “I won't,” he says, and lashes out. Luminara, braced for a lightsaber, feels invisible fingers snatch her by the throat, slam her back into the wall so hard her vision spins, and she chokes on a gasp. Her lightsaber tumbles from her grip as the hold on her throat tightens, hard enough to crush her throat—

A blaster bolt streaks right at Krell’s head, and he jerks back, hold on Luminara slipping. With a cry, she breaks it the rest of the way, drops to the ground as Gree approaches at a run. Rolling, she snatches up her lightsaber, then lunges, putting herself between Gree and Krell and catching Krell’s blade with a surge of intent. Feels the steadiness of familiarity, the motions as Gree falls back, aims, fires, and moves with him. Lets the bolt distract Krell as he blocks it, then the next, and drives Krell’s lightsaber down with one hard strike.

Behind her, Gree hesitates, and Luminara doesn’t have a bond with him the way she does with Barriss, but—

Remembers the touches against her wrist, time and again, one little brush to reassure them both of each other’s steadiness, and Luminara knows his mind almost as well as Barriss’s. Sends a thought, a brief instant of crystal clarity and reassurance and her own next move, and feels his breath catch more than hears it.

Feels the determination that rises in tandem with hers, and moves.

Krell’s lightsaber sweeps at her head, a practiced stroke, but Luminara ducks beneath it just as Gree's next shot sounds. Krell sidesteps it, but the opening is all Luminara needs; as two more shots drive Krell sideways, she blocks his blade with her own, shoves him back with all the strength the Force can give her, and turns. A blaster bolt passes right in front of her eyes as she knocks Krell’s blade wide, and strikes true.

With a cry, Krell staggers. Puts a hand to his chest, like he can't believe he was hit, and Luminara doesn’t hesitate. She flips her blade around, slashes down as he brings his lightsaber up to counter, and takes his arm off at the elbow.

Krell’s scream rings through the hallway, but even as he collapses he throws a hand out.

Luminara feels the intent of it, sees the lit lightsaber rise. With a curse she learned from Buzz, she throws herself forward as it hurtles towards Gree, puts herself between him and the lightsaber. There’s no time to react more carefully, no way to block it well; she slashes her blade into it, ducks its spin, and feels a wrench as something hits her headpiece. The cloth tears away, split down one side, but she snatches the hilt of Krell’s lightsaber out of the air and brings her blade down sharply, cutting the hilt in half just as another blaster shot sounds.

The two pieces tumble out of the air, the kyber crystal clattering away to slide into the hall beside them. Behind Luminara there's the thump of a body hitting the ground, perfectly still.

That shot wasn’t set to stun, Luminara is sure. And—any loss of life is a tragedy, but somehow, she can't bring herself to mourn this one.

“General!” Gree says, and in a moment he’s at her side. Luminara automatically puts a hand up, but before she can even start to worry, a dark cloth covers her hair in place of her lost headpiece, draping over her shoulders.

“Sorry, sir,” Gree says quietly. “I didn’t look, but I thought—”

Something like laughter bubbles up in Luminara’s chest, warm and bright. Carefully, she resettles the cloth, which is nothing even close to standard issue for a clone to be carrying, and makes sure her hair is covered before she straightens, wrapping the ends around her shoulders as Barriss does when she isn't wearing her cloak.

“Thank you, Gree,” she says, rough through her bruised throat, and reaches out. Touches the back of his wrist, right where skin shows between his glove and his armor, and offers him a smile. “You were carrying that just for me?”

Gree isn't wearing his helmet, and the faintly abashed curl of his mouth is easy to see. “You or the commander,” he admits. “I…read up on Mirialans, and I thought it would be good to have. Just in case.”

“I appreciate it.” Once more, Luminara checks that the scarf will stay, then deactivates her lightsaber and deliberately clips it to her belt. Pong Krell is dead. She doesn’t need to look to know that. “And the assistance, as well.”

Gree's breath is heavy, relieved. “I was just coming to find you,” he says. “Krell’s sergeant told me a lot of things about their last deployment. Including how Krell had their captain executed for treason, because he wouldn’t let Krell get their men killed.”

Luminara swallows, and the ache in her throat is nothing compared to the ache in her chest. A clone tried to save his brothers, and he was killed for it.

She shouldn’t be glad that Krell isn't alive to stand trial, but—well. Jedi strive for goals that they don’t always meet. She’ll reflect on it later, when she meditates, and likely be very sorry then. Probably.

“No longer,” she says, and coughs as her next breath rasps in her throat. There’s a sharp inhale beside her, and Gree raises a hand, hesitates. When Luminara casts him a tired smile, though, he smiles back, and carefully reaches for her, tilting her chin up to check the undoubtedly spectacular bruises that are already appearing on her neck.

“No,” Gree says, and he sounds grimly satisfied. “You beat him, sir.”

Dark Jedi, Luminara wants to say, but the adrenaline from the fight is leaving her, settling as weariness. “ _We_ did, Gree. The sergeant?” she asks.

“I sent him to the _Tranquility_ ,” Gree says. “Along with as many of his company as he could round up. Cooker was going to get them settled somewhere Krell couldn’t reach.” He pauses, glancing at the slumped form, and says, “Guess that’s not necessary anymore.”

“No,” Luminara agrees on a breath. She needs to do—something for his men. Anything at all, because the Jedi missed this. They missed one of their own falling to the Dark Side, using the lives placed in his care as nothing but tools, and in light of that, nothing they can do will ever be enough to make amends. “But let them stay. I’ll see to getting them drafted into Green Company, if you’re willing, Commander.”

“Absolutely.” Gree catches her elbow when her first step wavers, and says quietly, “We need to get you to Commander Offee, sir. You're looking a little rough.”

Luminara snorts. “Not even I can keep my composure after a Besalisk punches me in the face,” she says dryly, and frames the hot, swelling bruise that surrounds one eye and a nose that’s likely broken. Krell’s fists were rather larger than most.

“I thought you did just fine,” Gree says quietly, and his hand tightens faintly on her arm. “Sir, I—thank you.”

Luminara can feel the reason for his words, resting just beneath them, but she shakes her head. “Krell was _wrong_ ,” she says, unwilling to waver on this. “You are all your own men.”

“ _Your_ men, too,” Gree says, all humor. “I think that’s a plus.”

Luminara smiles, touching the scarf that covers her hair. “For me as well,” she promises, and glances back at Krell’s body. “I need to comm the Council. And—”

“Medbay,” Gree says firmly, and steers her back towards the main part of the station. “I’ll station men to watch the scene. Commander Offee will be _very_ unhappy if you don’t let her check you.”

That’s all too true, Luminara reflects, wincing faintly. Barriss will be dismayed over all parts of this, but—there was no way Luminara could have called for backup, during the fight.

But it ended without issue. The Force put Gree right where she needed him, just as he always is, and Krell is one more piece of Darkness the Jedi Order need not harbor any longer.

“All right,” she allows, and lets him lead her towards Medbay 6, listening with half an ear to the orders he murmurs into his comm. There's a definite one included to secure her a new headpiece, and Luminara can't help but smile, eyes closing as she lets Gree guide her.

Regardless of how they were created, the clones exist as unique souls. There isn't one among them that Luminara wouldn’t mourn, or fight for. It’s not just a Jedi's empathy, either. The clones are loyal, and there’s nothing to do but return that loyalty. It’s only right. And it’s an honor, even more than that.

She leans on Gree, taking in his sense of aged, quiet places and sunlight, and smiles at the brush of fingers over the back of her wrist. Just an instant, but it brings his mind into clear, sharp focus, and Luminara sends a touch of warm reassurance back.

It’s welcomed, easily and instantly. Luminara knew it would be.

“Commander Colt,” Shaak says, a little surprised to find him waiting in the hall outside Lama Su’s office when she leaves her meeting. “Done so soon?”

“Just touching bases with the other commanders,” Colt says, and turns to fall into step with her. “You could have told me you had a meeting.”

The censure in his voice is mild, born of worry. Shaak glances at him, but doesn’t waver as they head out onto a wide walk that cuts back towards the cloning facility. “It was sudden. I wasn’t expecting the prime minister to call on me so abruptly. But Agen, Dogma, and Tup saw me here,” she says serenely. “There was little risk.”

“Not while they were with you,” Colt agrees, though he doesn’t sound pleased about it. Lets out a breath, even so, and she can feel him shove the emotion away, bury it behind determination. “The cadet is still around?”

Shaak hums, amused. “I believe Agen's taken to him. He does have a fondness for helping people.” Glancing up, she takes in the lash of the rain against the transparisteel, and says, “Something happened.”

It’s not a question, but Colt inclines his head, one hand tightening like he doesn’t know whether to curl it into a fist or rest it on his blaster. “Found something you should hear,” he murmurs, quiet enough that no one is likely to overhear. “Blitz managed to get a bug in Nala Se’s office, and it picked up something interesting.”

Shaak pauses, a flicker of surprise warring with concern. “Dangerous,” she says softly.

Colt just snorts. “We’re soldiers, sir,” he reminds her.

It’s not a thing Shaak can ever forget. She turns her eyes forward, slipping her hands into the sleeves of her robe, and inclines her head. “For now,” she says, a little sad.

Colt is silent for a moment. “I don’t know anything else,” he finally says, and it’s somewhere between confession and dare. “And this suits me, sir.”

Shaak doesn’t point out that he doesn’t know what suits him, since this is all he’s done. “Maybe,” she says instead, “when the war is over, there will be no need for either of us to be soldiers.”

“I look forward to it,” Colt says bluntly. “You're a good fighter, sir, but—I don’t want you to be a soldier.”

“It’s the same for me, Colt,” Shaak tells him, and when he gives her a sideways look, she tips her head. “Change will not make you obsolete. You are valuable no matter what role you take. And there will always be a place for you beside the Jedi, should you want it.”

For a long, long moment, Colt doesn’t answer. Then, at length, he says, “All those diplomatic missions where you talk too much. Think you’d want a guard?”

Shaak considers. “No,” she says, “but I think I would do far better on them with a partner.”

Colt's smile is quick, but clear, even when he’s not looking at her. “As long as it’s not all talking.”

Lifting a hand, Shaak covers a chuckle. “There is usually an equal amount of fighting for our lives,” she says, amused. “Or, in some cases, _running_ for our lives.”

Colt snorts. “That I can definitely help with,” he says, and steps back as they approach her quarters, letting her key the door open. “Tup and Dogma are gone for a bit?”

“I believe Agen was going to teach them to meditate,” Shaak confirms, and follows him inside, closing and locking the door behind her. The jammer on the table activates with a touch, and she breathes out a sigh as the seriousness of the matter settles like a shroud. “We’re safe.”

With a nod, Colt pulls a small device from his belt, setting it beside the jammer. “Blitz stuck it under her new desk. Easy enough for Havoc to grab when he turned up with some reports.” Grimly, he hits a button, and—

“—assure you, it had nothing to do with my forces. If there was an intruder, you would be best served turning your accusations elsewhere, Doctor.”

Shaak goes very, very still. The voice is terribly, unsettlingly familiar, one she’s only heard in Separatist propaganda since the owner’s departure from the temple. Once, he was a friend, as close as any other Master with a troublesome padawan, ready to laugh with her over their students’ antics.

“The Jedi,” Nala Se says, “are entirely convinced that it was _your_ apprentice. Given the state of our employment with you, I hadn’t thought you would need to steal anything, Count.”

Employment, Shaak thinks, and closes her eyes. Well.

“The Jedi have been mistaken before,” Dooku says, coolly amused. “I would not take their word for anything that happens, regardless of whether it’s under their noses. Look elsewhere for your culprit.”

“Very well,” Nala Se allows, cold but polite. “Thank you for your time, Count Dooku.”

Dooku make a sound of amused tolerance. “Things are progressing according to plan?” he asks.

“Of course. There are no flaws in our designs.”

Reaching out, Colt stops the recording. “They don’t ever mention the chips,” he says. “But—”

“Given that they are speaking at all, I am more than willing to believe that Dooku has a hand in their presence,” Shaak says gravely, and curls her hands together, staring down at the bug. Her chest feels tight, and it’s hard to know what to do next. Contact the council, send another secure transmission of files, of course, but—

The clone army is being altered by the Separatists. Every clone trooper she’s sent out has had _something_ done to them, something she doesn’t know, can't guess at beyond the understanding that it will be terrible for the clones and Jedi alike. For the Republic as a whole, as well.

“We’ve been caught in a web,” she says softly, into the silence. Feels the steel in the words, but doesn’t even try to hide it. “The enemy has spun a net around us without us ever seeing the threads of it. I fear that we are all in grave danger.”

“We are,” Colt acknowledges, and a moment later Shaak feels him move. Feels a hand settle on her shoulder, knuckles brushing her lek, with the weight of reassurance behind it. “But none of us are going into this alone, sir. You’ve got all of us at your backs.”

A good reminder. Shaak breathes out, lifts her head, and smiles at him. “And you and your brothers have the Jedi,” she promises, curling her hand over his. Lets it rest there for a moment, long and careful, and Colt steps closer. Their shoulders brush, and Shaak can feel the determination in him, the steady, stalwart focus that could hold back an ocean.

Dooku won't win. He was a friend once, but he’s an enemy now. Yoda faced him down on Geonosis, failed to beat him, but this time it’s Shaak's turn. Old friend or not, she has millions of clones who need to be protected from his schemes, and with them at risk, she won't hesitate.

“Colt,” she says, perfectly composed. “Your batchmates. Would the three of you be willing to accompany me on a mission?” When Colt raises a brow at her, she smiles. “There will be very little talking. I believe I can promise you that.”

Colt looks at her for a beat, then smirks. “Sure, General,” he says, easy, dangerous. “Permission to raid the armory before we go?”

Shaak smiles back. Thinks of the akul on Shili, and running it to ground, and the way her knives cut deep. “I think, Commander, that that sounds like a splendid idea.”


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From this point forward, I'm going to try to stick to a weekly update schedule for this fic, so that it will actually get finished before by brain skips town to the next AU. 
> 
> **Updates for this fic will be Thursdays and Sundays from now on.**

“You're _leaving_?” Tup asks, dismayed. Tries to swallow it down, to keep it hidden, but Shaak's gaze still softens faintly. She turns off the holoprojector, stepping around it, and reaches out.

Weird. Still so _weird_ that he can reach back, and Shaak's hand curls around his own in a warm touch.

“Briefly,” she says. “I shouldn’t be gone more than a few days, Tup, and we’ll start your training as soon as I return. For now, however, this is a mission for a trained Jedi. I do not want to put you in unnecessary danger.”

Tup considers telling her that he’s a soldier, that he _is_ trained, even if it’s just with a blaster. “You're taking other clones with you,” he points out, because Commander Colt had excused himself with words about getting ready, and there’s no way it’s going to be just Colt and Shaak on a full mission.

Shaak hesitates for a long moment, and then carefully lets her hand drop. Curls her fingers together in front of herself, breathing in, and says, “Yes. Colt, Blitz, and Havoc will be accompanying me.”

Three of the Rancor Battalion’s commanders. Alarm flares, and Tup pulls back. “It’s that dangerous?” he demands. “You need three ARC _commanders_ with you?”

“It’s a mission like any other,” Shaak says, steely, though her smile at Tup is warm. “There are other reasons to want Colt and his batchmates with me, however. They are…unmodified clones.”

“Unmodified,” Tup repeats, and for a moment if feels like his ears are ringing. He steps back, and—

Shaak was having his squad tested. The results alarmed her, enough that she contacted the rest of the Council about it, and they wouldn’t speak of it over comm. And—Colt went through the same test. Some kind of brain scan. But his must have turned up negative, which means—

“We’re _modified_?” Tup asks, bewildered. But—there’s no difference between the commanders and his squad, as far as he knows. Clones talk about that kind of thing. Someone would have mentioned it.

“Yes,” Shaak confirms, soft. “With control chips. Agen is trying to learn how to deactivate them, but I want to seek the problem at it’s source.” That thread of steel rises again, and she meets Tup's eyes without hesitation. “If you accompany us, I fear what will happen to you, Tup.”

Control. Tup thinks of his dreams, of the weight of a blaster in his hands. Of _good soldiers follow orders_ , and of traitors and Jedi and them being the same thing.

He’s shaking, he thinks, dazed. He’s shaking and he can't _stop_ and he _knows_ , stark and terrible and _gutting_ , just what his dreams are about.

“I want it out,” he says, and this at least is strong. Sharp, desperate, but at least he doesn’t waver. “I—Master Shaak, if it’s a chip we can take it out, right? We can get it out of me, and then I won't—”

His voice cracks. _Kill you_ , he wants to say, but can't even manage to form the words. He _won't_. Shaak is his Master. She’s his _teacher_ , and she’s the reason he gets to be a Jedi. He _can't_ be a risk to her. He refuses.

For a long moment, Shaak is silent, watching him. She doesn’t answer, and—

“Yeah,” Colt says, from the doorway. Tup twitches, jerking to look at him, and meets his cool, narrow look as squarely as he can. “There’s a surgery. The chip’s in your head, though, and it’s a dangerous one.”

“That’s fine,” Tup says, and means it. He’s afraid, and he doesn’t want to die, but—he’s had the dreams for so long, and he hates them. In them, his hands aren’t his own. He’s being _forced_ to do something, and he knows it, even though it feels right.

 _Good soldiers follow orders_ , he thinks, and it leaves him cold right down to his bones.

“Colt,” Shaak says quietly, but Colt tips a shoulder and leans against the doorframe between the rooms, gaze still trained on Tup.

“It’s his head, General,” he says, though it’s not unkind. “Let him pick.”

Shaak doesn’t seem overly convinced. “And the fact that you think he’s a threat to me has nothing to do with this?” she asks.

 _Oh_ , Tup thinks, and looks at Colt again. Suddenly, the fact that he almost never leaves Shaak's side even when Tup is nearby makes a lot more sense. Chilling, unsettling sense, but—Tup can't say he would do anything different, if the situation was reversed.

“It has everything to do with this,” Colt says, and the set of his mouth is hard, but when he looks at Shaak, Tup can…feel. Nothing in particular, really, but given how little reaction Colt normally shows, that already means something. “I’m going to go out on a limb here and say Tup doesn’t want to be a danger to you any more than I want him to be.”

“He’s right,” Tup agrees immediately. “I don’t care if it’s dangerous. This—this is what my dreams are all about. If I can stop them, I _need_ to.” He hesitates, thinking of Dogma following after General Kolar, so bewildered by everything, and says, “Dogma should know, too. He’d hate it, Master. He’d hate the idea of turning on the Jedi so much.”

Shaak blinks. She looks from Tup to Colt and back again, frowning faintly. “Turning on us?” she asks after a moment.

“What else could it be?” Colt asks, short, and takes a step forward. Another, until he’s right in front of Shaak, like he’s braced to argue. “Tup keeps dreaming about following orders and killing traitors, and it’s a _Jedi_ he kills. You wouldn’t betray us. So the chips make them _think_ you do. I’d bet anything on it.”

Shaak is silent for a long, long minute. Then, slow, she breathes out, folding her hands in front of hers. “I hope very much that you're wrong,” she says softly. “But I don’t think we can afford to assume you are.” Lifting her chin, she looks past Colt to Tup, and says, “Whatever your decision, Tup, I will abide by it.”

“I want the chip out,” Tup says firmly. “You're going to be gone, so—the med-droids can do it then, right?”

Expression troubled, Shaak inclines her head. “Yes,” she agrees. “I will make sure Agen knows what you plan to do, and that Dogma is aware as well.” Glancing away for a moment, she closes her eyes, then says, “He’ll return shortly. If you’ll both excuse me, I will speak with the med-droids.”

Tup stays where he is as she sweeps out of the room, and—he’s grateful. Shaak is strong, and steady, but—Tup just needs a few minutes to fall apart on his own, and feel _everything_ , and then he can keep moving.

In the silence Shaak leaves in her wake, Colt moves. He glances after her for a long moment, then turns to Tup. The curl of his hand over Tup's shoulder is almost startling, but there's nothing but silent support in it.

“It’s the right choice,” Colt says quietly, and lets go. His eyes go back to the doorway, like he wants to follows Shaak, but he doesn’t.

“I know,” Tup says honestly. “I don’t want to hurt her. Or any Jedi.”

“This will make sure you don’t,” Colt says steadily.

Tup nods, and—all he can say is, “On your mission. Just. Keep her safe?”

Colt's mouth curves, and just for a moment his face is softer, expression brighter. “She’s a Jedi,” he says. “One of the best. Have some faith in your teacher.”

Then, clapping Tup on the shoulder, he turns and disappears after Shaak. Tup doesn’t mind the space; he curls his arms around himself and breathes out, tries what Master Kolar told him about breathing things away, and what Shaak taught him when they meditated, about clearing his mind. It’s fine, because this will fix things, and then there won't be a chip in his head. Then the dreams will stop, and he won't lose control of himself and kill someone he cares about.

He’s not sure how long he stands there, but the hiss of the door is what finally breaks him out of his thoughts. Maybe it’s the sound of the steps, or maybe it’s something else, but Tup knows before the figure even rounds the corner that it’s going to be Dogma, and it is.

He looks the closest Tup has ever seen him to frazzled, too.

“Tup!” Dogma says, and marches closer, waving a datapad. There's an almost wild look in his eyes that makes Tup take an automatic step back. “Tup, he’s _crazy_! He’s—there's—he’s not _supposed_ to be like this! The Jedi are supposed to be—be _smart_! I don’t—how do I tell him he’s crazy?”

Dogma’s voice cracks, and Tup freezes, utterly caught off guard.

“He?” he asks carefully. “You mean Gen—Master Kolar? Did something happen?”

Looking like a man at the end of his rope, Dogma shoves the datapad into Tup's chest. “He _promoted_ me!” he says, like it’s the end of the world. “Tup, he can't just _do_ that! I'm a _cadet_!”

Tup blinks, then carefully takes the pad from Dogma and looks down at the order written out across the screen. “Master Kolar is a general,” he points out. “I think he technically can.” It looks official, and perfectly legal, even if Tup's not an expert. Commander Havoc even signed off on it, in addition to Master Kolar.

Dogma looks like he’s about to tear in three different directions. “But it’s a _bad idea_ ,” he hisses, like he can't even believe he’s saying it out loud. “I'm not a commander, I'm a _cadet_. I haven’t even _graduated_ yet.”

Tup refrains from pointing out that Master Kolar isn't exactly the most traditional general, and giving him a traditional commander would probably just be a headache for everyone involved. It seems rude, seeing as Dogma’s looking on the edge of a headache of his own right now. “Maybe you can talk to him?” he offers, a little doubtfully. Master Kolar doesn’t seem like the type to listen to arguments.

Dogma doesn’t seem any more hopeful. He sinks into one of the empty chairs, wide-eyed and blankly staring, like his world is crashing down around his ears. “I shouldn’t—he’s a _general_ ,” he says. “He should know best. But this—this is _insane_.”

“I guess he likes you?” Tup offers with a shrug.

“I helped him break into Nala Se’s office,” Dogma says, dazed. “And I helped him knock out two clones.”

“Oh.” Tup pauses, not entirely sure what to do with that. “No wonder he likes you.”

Dogma groans, long and loud, and buries his face in his hands.

Sympathetic but also a little amused, Tup pats him on the shoulder, then goes to make him a cup of tea. He looks like he needs it.

“Uh,” Fives says carefully. “Can I ask you something, General?”

“If it’s anything personal, I claim the right to kick you in retaliation,” Cody says immediately, and when Mace gives him a look, amused, he snorts but subsides.

“It’s not about _you_ , Commander, don’t worry,” Fives says, rolling his eyes. “But next time I want to be bored to sleep I’ll let you know, sir.”

Cody's eyes narrow, but before he can do anything Mace talks one slightly longer step, putting himself between them, and says, “Of course, Fives.”

He ignores a flicker of red eyes in the curve of the tunnel, watching them pass. No one else seems to notice, and Mace is tired of illusions.

Fives pulls a face at Cody where he can't see it, only to lose it in an instant when Cody leans around Mace to give him a look. “Uh, right,” he says quickly. “I—General Skywalker mentioned something, and…”

He falters, apparently unsure of how to finish, but Mace has a feeling he knows where this is going. Hadn’t expected it to be a conversation he had while still on Dromund Kaas, but then, absolutely nothing else here has gone according to plan, so maybe that’s to be expected.

“You want to know if you're Force-sensitive,” he says calmly.

Fives's breath is slow, careful, like hearing it from Mace has an impact that hearing it from Anakin didn’t. “Yeah,” he says finally. “When you and the commander fell down here—I _felt_ it, sir. It was like I could hear you talking and then you vanished mid-sentence.”

Not surprising. This whole section of tunnels must be where Sith once came to practice alchemy, or make use of darker abilities. That they would hide it from each other, blocking all sense of the place in the Force, is logical, given that they would have always been in competition.

“The Order has a whole branch of Jedi devoted to seeking out Force-sensitive children and making sure to offer them training,” Mace says. “But very often, the ones who find children in the greatest need are Jedi on missions, who are called to them by the Force.” Pauses, remembering Depa as a baby, the way she opened her eyes and looked up at him, and smiles faintly. “Stress brings out such things, like a survival instinct.”

“And…you think that’s why you noticed now?” Fives asks. When Mace glances over at him, his expression is twisted up in doubt, and it’s enough to make Mace snort.

“The vornskrs helped,” he says, pointed, and Fives groans, though he doesn’t argue.

“Okay, but—the general said you’d made a bond with me, or I’d made one with you, and that was why I noticed you disappearing,” Fives says doggedly. “So that’s like finding a Force-sensitive kid on a mission, right?”

Mace considers how to answer. Addressing this now leaves more uncertainty than he would like, because there’s no way to consult the Council, no chance at predicting with certainty what decisions they’ll make when he does. Mace is Master of the Order, but—they function as a body, and he’s not a despot.

“Yes,” he says slowly, “and no.”

Fives stares at him, looking like he wants to throw something.

“Jedi, kid. They’re all like this,” Cody says dryly. When Mace raises a brow at him, he raises one right back, and says, “Are you trying to argue?”

Mace refuses to answer that, on the grounds that the question is a definite trap. Instead, he says to Fives, “In a normal situation, you would have been found as an infant or a small child, and had I been the one to find you on a mission, it would not be unusual for me to be called to take you as a padawan as well.”

“But,” Fives says. It’s not bitter. It’s not even sad. Resigned, more, with a trace of regret that hooks beneath Mace's skin. “I'm a clone, and no one even realized clones could be Force-sensitive. You weren’t trying to do the bond thing, it just happened. So what happens now?”

Cody is watching Mace, too. Quiet, steady, but Mace can't read his face. Can just feel, low and quiet, the press of his emotions, and—

Cody is bitter. Just faintly, but it’s there.

Silently, carefully, Mace curls his fingers more tightly into Cody's. He wants to reach out with his mind, touch reassurance to Cody's thoughts, but Cody wants to keep his mind private, so Mace refrains. “Now,” he says, “we leave Dromund Kaas. And when we’re back in Republic space, I bring the matter before the council, and ask if I can take you as a padawan learner despite your age.”

The brief spike of Fives's shock is almost drowned out by glee. “ _Really_?” Fives asks, delighted. “You want to teach me how to be a Jedi? Just like that?”

 _Just like that_ will likely include _weeks_ of incredibly tiresome meetings before the Council, and probably twice as much time in the Archives trying to find precedents and exceptions to the rules that have come before. Still, Mace inclines his head, and says, “That the bond was starting between us already is a good sign. The Force does these things for a reason.”

From where she’s walking ahead of them, Shmi glances back, and her smile is wistful. “Ani had that same reaction, when Master Jinn told him,” she says, watching Fives for a moment. “He thought it was the best thing that had ever happened to him.”

Qui-Gon’s report about the matter was dry, facts without emotion. But Mace thinks of how he was once, kind and careful and stubborn as a bantha, and snorts. “I’m sure,” he says, “and Master Jinn was equally pleased.”

Shmi's eyes are sad. “Is he well? I always hoped that he was the one who took Anakin as a student.”

“My general did,” Cody says, sparing Mace from having to answer. He’s grateful; with the appearance of the ghost, thinking of Qui-Gon’s death is too stark right now. Too tangled. “Jinn died right afterwards, but his student took on General Skywalker. They’re some of the best in the galaxy.”

Just for a moment, Shmi closes her eyes, and the smile on her face is a light all its own. “I’m glad,” she says, soft. Opens them again, directing her smile at Fives, and says, “I'm sure you’ll have the same luck in training.”

Fives pauses, looking like he doesn’t know whether to be horrified or agree. It makes Mace hide his amusement, and as Fives stumbles over his words to tell her why Anakin's luck isn't a thing to live up to, he glances away.

There’s a shadow in the corner of his vision, but he can't tell if it’s real or not.

“See something?” Cody asks quietly, and when Mace glances over, Cody is watching him, expression faintly concerned, lines tight around his eyes. The torchlight catches on the scar that curves around his eye, and after a long moment Mace has to look away.

“I don’t think we should be trusting any of my senses right now,” he says.

Cody's breath is all rueful agreement. “Not trusting them seems like just asking for trouble, though.”

That’s also true. There’s no winning, it seems. Mace snorts, but when Cody laces their fingers together more securely, he says, “I think we’ve asked for as much trouble as we can handle.”

“Or more,” Cody mutters, frowning, but his expression is thoughtful. “The leviathan can't reach me, because of the warblade. Even if you can't carry it, what about…using my thoughts? You can read them, right?”

Mace doesn’t answer for a long moment, trying to find the words. “It wouldn’t just be surface thoughts,” he says finally. “Those don’t seem to be enough to register. It would have to be a much deeper connection, and it could be uncomfortable for you, especially when you want to keep your mind private.”

Cody pauses, slowly raising a brow. “But it would help,” he says.

“Skin contact helps,” Mace points out.

The expression that gets him is entirely unimpressed. “I don’t exactly mind holding your hand, Mace, but if we get in a fight, it’s not exactly convenient.” Cody looks ahead of them, gaze lingering on Shmi, and says, “I said it was fine in an emergency, anyway. I think all of this counts.”

Mace is unmoved. “Connections linger. It would increase my awareness of your thoughts, even after we separated. This isn't something to be agreed to lightly, Cody.”

“Like marriage?” Cody counters, ruthless. He comes to a stop in the middle of the tunnel, and Mace does as well, turning to face him. “I trust that you're not going to use anything you see against me. And if it keeps you from getting tricked next time that ghost shows up, I think it’s worth it.” Just for a moment, something rueful crosses his expression, and he says, “I'm not trying to guilt you into doing it. But if it would help, I'm willing.”

“It would,” Mace allows after a moment. But Cody is already in a marriage he never planned for, with little chance of escaping it if they want to keep the ruse up. Adding in a lack of privacy in his own head seems incredibly unjust, as far as his autonomy goes.

“ _Mace_ ,” Cody says, exasperated, and that frown is one that could likely cow even Obi-Wan. “This is me agreeing. Just—try it. If this can beat the leviathan, I'm all for it.”

“Evade it, certainly,” Mace says after a moment. “I don’t know if escaping it entirely will wake it up to find its food more directly.”

Cody's expression twists for a beat, then slides into resigned horror. “ _That’s_ a fun thought.”

“The only way our honeymoon could be more entertaining, at this point,” Mace observes.

The look Cody gives him is three parts humor and one part sheer resignation. “Well, now that you’ve said that, Dromund Kaas is _definitely_ going to try and prove us wrong.”

Mace smiles, just faintly. “You’re sure?” is all he asks, though.

“Yeah,” Cody says stubbornly, and meets his eyes. Hesitates, there, for an instant, but before Mace can feel more than a flicker of alarm, he says, “Since you're going to be in my head. I—should probably say something.”

Silently, Mace waits, watching his expression.

“Helpful,” Cody mutters, but not like he means it, and rubs his free hand over his face. “I’m attracted to you,” he finally says.

That’s nothing close to what Mace was expecting him to say. For a moment, he lets the words settle, too startled to react, and then inclines his head. “You look very good in a dress uniform,” he returns, and feels the relieved huff of Cody's laugh just as much as he feels it.

“Only in a dress uniform?” Cody asks, but it’s all humor, with nothing of offense.

“Particularly good in a dress uniform,” Mace corrects, and raises a hand. Holds it there, in the air between them, and meets Cody's eyes.

Dogged, Cody holds his gaze, and steps forward, right into the curve of Mace's hand.

It’s permission, and Mace takes it, closing his eyes. This isn't like forging a padawan bond, or even a partner bond. Lighter, but—still anchored. He traces his thoughts through Cody's own, not lingering on them, and breathes out, slow, careful.

It takes a touch of will, a trace of the Force. Like gilt threads anchoring themselves, the connection slowly spins into being, and the sense of it is—closeness. Like sitting with their shoulders pressed together in the dark, breathing in sync. Mace can feel the dart of Cody's surprise, the immediate way his thoughts slant towards analyzing, assessing. The curiosity curls though everything, undercut by wariness at something foreign in his head, and Mace tries to make his own thoughts clear, ordered as Cody brushes the surface of them.

“You didn’t mention it went both ways,” Cody says after a moment.

Mace raises an eyebrow, expression flat even as he lets Cody feel the dart of his amusement. “I thought that would have been obvious.”

Depa, when he established their training bond, immediately and merrily dove into Mace's thoughts to find out how he saw her. Cody just skims the edges, getting a feel for things more than looking for something in particular. “It feels…weird,” he says after a moment.

To someone entirely unfamiliar with Force abilities, Mace can imagine it does. Deliberately, carefully, just wanting to amuse Cody, he calls up an image, lets it settle between them: Cody in his dress uniform, stepping into the observation room doorway, and the definite lack of objection Mace had to the sight.

Cody's inhale is sharp, almost startled. Mace gets a tangle of thought, of intent, and then a hand curls around the back of his neck. Cody draws him down, a determined pull, and Mace hardly even has time to register his meaning before a warm, firm mouth slants over his own.

It’s very little like the kiss after the wedding, or the one in the training hall. This isn't careful, isn't quick. Cody’s kiss is harder, more desperate, and Mace catches one half-second flicker of the tunnel’s collapse, the rocks afterwards, Mace stepping through them. The relief, and the warmth, and—

He kisses back, the hand on Cody's cheek sliding around to cup the curve of his skull. Feels the tremble of a breath against his lips, then the hard slant of another kiss, like Cody can't help himself. Mace wouldn’t want him to; he tips his head, deepens it carefully, feels the edge of a huff before Cody leans up, adjusting the angle to something more comfortable. Pushes, and Mace lets him take the lead, tracing the bright-edged tangle of intrigue-wonder- _intent_ that fills Cody's thoughts and answering with his own—

Somewhere ahead of them, as jarring as a bucket of cold water over their heads, there’s a woman’s cry, a shout, the sound of blaster fire.


	31. Chapter 31

“Nar Shaddaa?” Havoc asks, nose wrinkling. “What’s on Nar Shaddaa besides Hutts and crime?”

“A very specific kind of crime, I'm assuming, since we're not telling anyone we're going there” Colt retorts, and jerks his head at Blitz without looking away from the wiring under his hands. “Get those stashed and then duck down to the engine room. You know where the shielded corner is?”

“We’ve been on secret missions before, vod,” Blitz says, thumping him in the side of the helmet as he passes. “Keep your _kama_ on, we’ll get out of sight.”

Colt grunts, unimpressed. “You’ve been on missions with General Yoda. Not like this.” He’s not sure what precisely General Ti is planning to do, and even with the jammer she hasn’t wanted to say, but no matter what, he thinks it’s safe to say she’s planning something big.

“You’ve been on _five_ missions with General Ti, and two of those were to Coruscant.” Blitz tucks Havoc’s modified sniper rifle back behind one of Shaak’s robes in the ship’s tiny closet. “Don’t act like you're the expert.”

“More expert than either of us,” Havoc points out, and drops a crate of rations by the bulkhead. Pauses, running his fingers over the sleek sweep of the wall, and says, “I think I've figured out why you volunteer for all the escort missions, vod. You always did like flying.”

“You think _that’s_ why?” Blitz scoffs, but he mostly sounds amused. “Not quite, I'm guessing. Right, Colt?”

“ _Ne'johaa_ ,” Colt snaps, not about to endure any teasing from Blitz of all people.

Havoc rolls his eyes at both of them, then says, “No one’s going to ask why a Jedi cruiser has a smuggler’s hold?”

“A high-tech smuggler’s hold,” Blitz clarifies, shaking his head. “General Yoda said it was for getting valuable people out of dangerous systems.”

“What’s it matter why they stuck it in there? It’s there, and we can use it.” Colt straightens, still not entirely happy with the weapons systems, but willing to go with them for now. He’ll talk to Shaak about overhauling the system later. “You’ve registered for leave?”

“Of course,” Havoc confirms, before Blitz can say something sharp. “No one’s going to have a reason to look for us unless there’s an attack, and if there is—”

“We’ll have bigger things to worry about,” Blitz finishes, and catches Havoc by the collar. “Come on, let’s go hide before the long-necks think to scan the ship pre-takeoff.”

“You know, taking leave together is going to start a hell of a lot of rumors about us,” Havoc jokes, and Blitz promptly bounces him off the edge of a doorway. “Ow! _Gev, mir'osik_!”

“Suck it up,” Blitz retorts, dragging him out of sight, and Colt rolls his eyes at both of them, but turns when the doors to the facility open in a wash of golden light. Shaak makes her way through the heavy rain, not rushing, with her hands folded in the sleeves of her robe. It takes Colt a moment to make out her expression in the darkness, but by the time she’s at the base of the ramp, any thoughts he might have had of her regretting this mission are gone. She looks grim, settled in it, and she inclines her head to Colt without pause.

“General,” Colt says, coming to attention. “Tup's all set?”

Shaak inclines her head, then shakes the water off her montrals. “He’ll have surgery in an hour,” she says. “Agen and Dogma are staying with him, and his recovery can be done in my rooms.”

That’s one weight off Colt's mind, at least. He hadn’t really thought the kid would go through with it, but—maybe he underestimated him a bit. Underestimated his devotion to Shaak, too.

“Good,” he says. “We’re prepped and ready whenever you are, General. I've got the all-clear from the air traffic systems, too. This sector’s clear.”

“Very good, Commander. Please register our course for Coruscant.” Shaak sweeps past him, but her hand brushes his as she moves, just enough for Colt to feel it through his gloves.

“Of course, sir. Right away.” Colt follows her up towards the cockpit, then takes the pilot’s seat and pulls his helmet off, leaning forward to lay in the course. He lets the Kaminoan systems check his calculations, then gets the confirmation and starts the engines. As they lift off, Shaak takes the other seat, folding her hands in her lap, and closes her eyes. Breathes out, and her face slips into the placid lines mean she’s actually somewhere far away.

Colt doesn’t comment. He gets them out of atmosphere, out of range of the Kaminoan systems, and then quickly wipes the hyperspace coordinates and inputs new ones. Nar Shaddaa is along enough hyperspace lanes that getting there is easy, even from a backwater planet like Kamino. It’s an easy jump to hyperspace, and as soon as the stars blur past them, Shaak lets out a slow breath and lifts her head.

“No one seems to have noticed anything,” she says. “Of the minds on watch, no one considered us for more than a few moments.”

“Council summons makes for a good excuse,” Colt says, double-checks the systems, and leans back, letting the ship take care of itself. It’s top of the line; practically all he has to do is point it in the right direction.

“They do.” Shaak's smile is faintly crooked. “With any luck, Agen's presence will keep anyone from needing me directly, and checking with the Council. I don’t plan to share news of my intentions, even with them.”

Clever, Colt thinks. Trust, but not recklessly. That’s how he would prefer everyone did everything. “That secret?” he asks, raising a brow at her.

Shaak hums, tilting her head. “There are things that even most of the other Council members are not aware of,” she says. “Agen included.”

“And this has something to do with us heading for Nar Shaddaa?” Havoc asks, ducking through the doorway well ahead of Blitz. Blitz is looking put out, so Havoc probably got his revenge while they were hiding their biosigns, but he steps up behind Colt's chair anyway, doesn’t do more than jostle Havoc with an elbow as he does.

“Everything to do with why,” Shaak allows, though she casts them a quick smile. “There was recently a traitor found among the ranks of the Jedi Order. In fact, Agen was just returning from attempting to apprehend him when he was dispatched to Kamino.”

A traitor? Colt frowns, unsettled by the idea, even though he knows that people like Dooku used to be Jedi themselves. “And you’re going to _look_ for them?” he asks warily, not about to yell at a Jedi for idiocy, but—maybe he’s a little closer to it than he would have thought five minutes ago.

“No,” Shaak says calmly. “Because I know exactly where to find him. And Quinlan will be able to tell me where to find Dooku.”

For a moment, Colt can't even speak, stunned silent. He stares at Shaak, and she watches him in return, expression serene, the light of hyperspace reflecting in her eyes in a dizzying rush. Like this is logical. Like this isn't going to get her _killed_. Colt's heart is in his throat, and he wants to shake her, or maybe yell _now_ , or—

Shaak leans forward, laying a hand over Colt's. “Peace, Colt,” she says softly. “I have faced Grievous before and won, and I know Dooku. I know his capabilities. He will underestimate me, and even beyond that, I have you and your brothers.”

“And even if he’s checking the manifests, he won't know we’re with you,” Havoc says, and crosses his arms over his chest, looking pleased. “It should work, Colt.”

It will work except for the fact that they're hunting down _Dooku_. Colt grimaces, rubbing a hand over his face, but—

Dooku knows about the chips, and he’s a part of all of this. If they can take him out, that’s one of the biggest players out of the game for good, and it might end the war well ahead of what’s expected. It gets the Jedi out of a good amount of danger, too.

“All right,” he says grimly. “We’re not going in there without at least three plans, though, and at least two backups for each of those.”

Shaak chuckles, raising a hand to hide her smile. “Commander,” she says, warmly amused. “Jedi don’t plan. We listen to the will of the Force and move accordingly.”

There's a moment of silence as Colt stares at her, incredulous, every last word having vanished from his brain.

With a snort, Blitz leans forward and claps him on the shoulder. “Good luck, vod,” he says. “ _K'oyacyi_.”

Colt thinks he can be forgiven for punching him in the shoulder with all the force of his frustration behind it. After all, he’s not about to punch _Shaak_ , even if that statement probably at least somewhat deserves it.

 _Jetii_ , he thinks, but Shaak is smiling, and—

They're going after Dooku. Colt shakes his head, and says, “You Jedi are crazy.”

Far from being offended, Shaak just looks amused. “Perhaps,” she allows, and turns her head, the akul-tooth headdress catching the starlight. “Dooku won't be expecting this, however. And I find myself out of patience with his plotting, Colt.”

Well. There's not really any arguing with that. And, at the very least, the three of them aren’t going to be a danger to Shaak, even if Dooku tries to activate the chips. Colt sighs, running a hand over his hair, and thinks of her quiet offer on the bridge. Thinks of _after_ , when he rarely lets himself, and—

_Think you’d want a guard?_

_No, but I think I would do far better with a partner_.

“Me too, General,” he says. “But he’s dangerous.”

“Yes,” Shaak agrees, soft. Her eyes are still fixed out the viewscreen, on the passing streaks of stars. “Incredibly dangerous. And he serves a more dangerous master. But the only way to deal with a tumor is to cut it out, and I will start with the disease that is in front of me and work from there.”

Even if it’s not the kind of plan Colt would prefer, he supposes it’s good enough for now. They’ll figure it out. Hopefully.

This, Anakin thinks grimly, would be a really good time to have paid attention to Obi-Wan’s lessons about cloaking himself in the Force.

There are footsteps, multiple sets, passing right beyond the corner. Voices, in a low murmur, and Anakin curls a hand around Kix's arm, keeps his other hand over Thorn’s mouth as he twitches and stirs. It’s tempting to use a Force suggestion to send him back to sleep, to make _sure_ they won't be found, but—

Hells. He’s already had that done to him so many times that Anakin would rather risk getting caught than try it again.

Kix turns his head, and even through the helmet Anakin can see the way he checks on Rys, the worry as he reaches for Thorn, gets a hand on his shoulder. “Easy, vod,” he breathes, and Thorn’s eyes snap open.

At the same moment, a man says, “Sidious left his guards at home this time, it seems.”

Every muscle in Thorn’s body goes tight, and he jerks. Quickly, Anakin lets go of Kix, wraps both arms around Thorn instead to hold him still, and hisses a wordless warning as he pins him. “Easy,” he mutters, and Thorn—

Thorn is shaking. There’s nothing but terror in his eyes, deep, horrified confusion, and Anakin thinks about the holes in his mind and feels _sick_.

“Easy, Thorn,” he murmurs, softer, and gentles his grip. Jerky, short, Thorn nods, and Anakin drops the hand over his mouth but doesn’t let go of him entirely. Thorn’s hand comes up, clutching at his robes, and Anakin can't help but think of how he did that years ago, to Obi-Wan, in the aftermath of his worst nightmares.

It’s been a long time since he’s gone to Obi-Wan about them, but—once, Obi-Wan was the greatest comfort a scared little boy could have hoped for.

“Not all of them,” a woman says, coldly amused. “More puppets.”

“It’s what they were made for.” The first man’s voice again, but it goes quiet a moment later.

The woman is the one who says, “Your Lord called for us, and we came. Don’t keep us waiting.”

“This way.” Fox’s voice, flat and uninflected. “Lord Sidious is prepared for your arrival.”

“I'm sure he is,” the woman drawls. “Lord Jedgar?”

“Leave them, Merili. Sidious won't take kindly to you damaging his pets.” There’s a low, grinding hiss that puts the hairs on the back of Anakin's neck up, and he holds his breath, listening to the scrape of scales on stone. Steps turn, heading back towards the square a few paces, and Jedgar says, “If Sidious wants to leave himself undefended, I won't protest. But the city is restless tonight. My Hssiss will remain here.”

Not a name Anakin recognizes, and he curses silently, eyeing the next closest window above them as an alternate route back into the citadel. It’s too high for him to take the troopers with him, though, and he’s not about to leave them behind.

“Of course, sir.” Fox’s voice again, and Anakin flicks a glance at the square, considering, but before he can move there are steps again. Fading, passing into the building, and in their wake a heavy door slams shut.

Slowly, carefully, Anakin breathes out. The sound of scales doesn’t come again, but he’s still careful when he lets go of Thorn and sits up. “You okay, Thorn?” he asks quietly.

Thorn looks from him to Kix to Rys, still unconscious, and the confusion hasn’t abated at all. “General Skywalker?” he asks. “Where—where are we? The Senate—we—”

“A Sith planet,” Anakin answers. “Somewhere in the Esstran sector. Someone was controlling you.”

Thorn swallows, but when Anakin rests a hand on his shoulder, he leans into it. “I don’t remember anything,” he says, bewildered.

Kix leans forward, just enough to glance around the corner, and then sinks back quickly, flattening himself to the wall in a way that means he just saw something _very_ unpleasant. With a flicker of grim resignation rising, Anakin glances at him, and even through the helmet he can see Kix’s grimace.

“Lizards,” Kix says, almost soundless. “At least six of them. Three meters long without the meter of tail, and about a meter and a half tall. Big karking claws, sir.”

Great, Anakin thinks with a sinking feeling. That must be what a Hssiss is. And knowing his luck, it’s probably venomous, too.

“That was Fox, wasn’t it?” Thorn asks, and he slides away from Anakin as quietly as he can, but Anakin catches him before he can go far. Maybe it’s the memory of Obi-Wan soothing his nightmares, or sitting up beside his bed on bad nights, but Anakin lets Thorn settle against the wall between him and Kix, one hand still on his shoulder. It could be his imagination, but he thinks Thorn leans into the contact, thinks he can feel the trembles lightening even if they don’t disappear.

“Yeah,” Anakin says softly. “Thire’s here, too, and probably Jek. We don’t know about anyone else.”

Thorn swallows, nods. Gentle, Kix taps a knuckle against the lightning bolt tattoos that arc down his cheek, and says, “Help me hold Rys while the General wakes him up. I think the stun is wearing off.”

Thorn’s expression twists, but he nods, rolling up onto one knee to grab Rys’s left arm. Kix takes the right, then nods to Anakin, and says, “Whenever you’re ready, sir.”

Anakin hesitates, caught. Swallows hard, looking down at Rys, and—

His hands curl into fists as he remembers that glimpse of Palpatine’s office, Palpatine’s _smile_. Welcoming, grandfatherly, exactly the same as the one he gives to Anakin. Eerie, to see it and then feel the _grab_ of power that took Thorn’s mind and wiped everything else away.

He doesn’t want to feel it again. He doesn’t want to _know_ , because there’s a Sith Lord controlling the war, there’s a Sith Lord taking power, but it can’t be someone Anakin knows. It can’t be someone he cares about. This whole karking war has been going on for so long, though, and it’s been so dangerous, and he can’t even _count_ the number of times Padmé and Obi-Wan both have almost died. If Palpatine is responsible for that, if he’s really the Sith Lord—

This would be so much easier to face if Windu was here. He’s the head of the Council. He could choose what to do, and Anakin could just follow his orders. He doesn’t want to _have_ to decide what’s happening here for himself.

But—

Rys stirs, and Anakin reaches out automatically, grips his jaw. Tips forward into his mind, and it’s not nearly as bad as Thorn’s. Somehow, though, that makes the dark, gaping tears where he’s lost time more obvious, the black threads that have stitched orders into his being even more gruesome. Anakin grits his teeth, thinking of his mother, of the explosive chip inside her head that kept her from escaping. This isn’t the same thing, not quite, but there are shades of it he can’t push down.

He left his mother on Tatooine. He left her there and she _died_. Leaving the Guards here isn’t an option.

Rys comes back to conscious awareness jerking and gasping, Anakin’s hand over his mouth. He wrenches upright, topples forward, and Kix rushes to steady him as he gags and chokes. Unable to help himself, Anakin moves, too, rests a hand on his armored back and tries not to drown in the waves of horror and desperation rising from him. Reaches for Rys’s mind—

A body. A Twi’lek man who saw them boarding, who asked for identification and credentials, and Rys shot him. Rys shot him and Jek dumped his body over the side of the platform, and Palpatine had walked past without even glancing at them.

“It wasn’t you,” Anakin says, as loud as he dares. “It wasn’t you, Rys.”

Rys chokes out a sound that might be a laugh, burying his face in his hands. “Karking hells. It sure felt like my finger on the trigger, General.”

“It wasn’t,” Anakin insists, and there’s anger curling in his stomach, kindling, flaring. He’s _furious_ , and—if Palpatine did this, if this really is him and not someone framing him in a stupidly complicated scheme, Anakin will—he’ll have to do _something._ Rys doesn’t deserve this. Neither does Thorn. Neither did whatever official they were ordered to kill, just because he’d seen the wrong thing.

“It was his finger on the trigger,” Anakin says, and means it. Thinks of yellow eyes and the blankness of Thorn’s memories, and says, “He _used_ you, Rys. That wasn’t your fault.”

When Rys doesn’t answer, Anakin takes a breath. He tugs the trooper up, and the sight of his pale, twisted expression turns sharp and rough in Anakin’s chest. It seems, for a moment, like Anakin can _look_ at him and see the Dark threads still holding his mind in a certain pattern, pinning his thoughts into strange orders.

Anakin isn’t Mandalorian, but he’s lived side by side with Rex and all of Torrent Company for _months_ now. It’s as automatic as breathing to lean in, to rest is forehead against Rys’s, and Rys makes a soft, pained sound, closing his eyes.

“None of you are at fault here,” Anakin says, a dare to disagree with him. “We’re going to get you out of here, all of you. All right? So just keep moving, Rys.”

“Yes, sir,” Rys says, but it’s steadier than it was a moment ago, firmer. When Anakin pulls back, Rys nods, and he follows Anakin up to his feet. Anakin offers Thorn a hand, and the commander takes it, slightly wobbly but not enough that Anakin thinks he’s going to fall over his own feet as soon as they start to move.

Rising as well, Kix brings his blaster around, then asks, “Take out the lizards, sir?”

It’s automatic to want to say yes. Anakin opens his mouth to do just that, then pauses. Thinks of the voices, and—maybe they’re not Sith themselves, but they seem more than willing to follow the Sith Lord, and that makes them dangerous enough. There are at least three enemies in the citadel, then, including Dooku's and Maul’s Master, and Anakin _knows_ he’s good, but those odds suck _shebs_. Given how dangerous Ventress alone is, he might not even risk it if he had all of Torrent Company _and_ Obi-Wan as backup.

With three clone troopers, skilled but baseline human? Two of whom have had the Sith Lord in their heads, digging pathways for himself to use them like puppets, and having to prioritize rescuing at least three other Guards?

Yeah. Anakin isn’t _that_ suicidal.

“There were lower floors,” he says to Kix, a flicker of a thought coalescing into an idea. “We scouted the edges of them. There must be basement entrances _somewhere_ , right? For supplies or whatever. Even Sith Lords from a thousand years ago have to eat, so where are the kitchens?”

“Somewhere we can break into more easily, I'm sure,” Kix says with a trace of humor.

“Uh,” Thorn says, looking between them. “I…think I might know?”

“Works for me. Let’s get moving,” Anakin says, and pushes Thorn’s helmet into his hands. It’s not quite a plan, but it’s close enough to one that even Obi-Wan couldn’t complain much, and that’s good enough for Anakin.

Cody isn't entirely sure what he expected, but it’s certainly not this.

He jerks to a sharp halt just around the corner, one hand snapping up to grab Mace's arm as he follows. It takes half a second to register the scene, and the panic of Shmi being a Sith plant is still at the forefront, the _she’s a danger_ beating a tattoo against the inside of his skull regardless of what Mace says about her presence being light. But—

Fives is on the ground, groaning. Shmi has his blaster, up and aimed, but not at him or at them; it’s pointed towards a door in the wall that stands open, dark and cobwebbed. On the ground between her and the door, scorched and still, is the body of a vornskr that looks like it was shot mid-leap.

“Shmi?” Mace asks, calm, and steps around Cody. He doesn’t have his lightsaber in hand, and he looks perfectly unruffled as he crouches down next to Fives, carefully pulling him up to sit. Fives's expression is screwed up, dazed and pained in equal measure, and he clutches his head without speaking. It’s strange enough to make Cody give him a careful look as he approaches, one hand close enough to the warblade to draw it if he needs it.

“The creature,” Shmi says, and takes a breath, lowering the weapon slightly. Her eyes flicker from the doorway to them and back again. “It came out, and—Fives thought it was something else.”

“Someone,” Fives mutters, and curls forward, pressing his hands against his forehead. “It looked—I thought it was Hevy. And if Anakin's mom came back from the dead, I thought—”

Understandable. Cody breathes out, lets the dizzying rush of adrenaline retreat slightly. “Shiny,” he says warningly, even as he claps Fives on the shoulder, “if you got taken out with your own blaster, I think I need to have some words with Rex about how he’s training you.”

“Captain Rex is fine,” Fives mutters, rubbing what looks like a growing knot on his skull. “She wouldn’t have gotten it if I’d been paying attention. And I'm not a shiny anymore!”

“Then you should have been paying attention,” Cody tells him, and—

Effervescent, like a tide beneath his own relief, he can feel Mace's amusement. It’s not his own, is a step removed, and he _knows_ it isn't his, but—he can still feel it.

It’s _weird_.

“You're lucky Shmi is a good shot,” Mace says dryly, sitting back. He rises smoothly, and tells Shmi, “Vornskrs are very dangerous. It’s good you killed that one at a distance.”

Shmi smiles crookedly, but gladly passes the blaster back to Mace. “It’s smaller than a womp rat,” she says. “But I figured anything with teeth like that should likely stay at a distance.”

“A good instinct.” Mace gives Fives the blaster back, then offers him a hand.

Taking it, Fives lets Mace pull him to his feet with a grimace, then lifts his head. Blinks, for a moment, at the vornskr, and then at the door, and asks in an odd voice, “Was that door here on our way down?”

Startled, Shmi glances at it, then frowns. “I’m…not sure,” she says slowly. “But—I think it looks familiar.”

Light, warm, Mace's hand settles on Cody's arm, like he’s trying to soothe the spike of worry that rises. “Where you woke up, perhaps?” Mace asks steadily, and Shmi hesitates.

“It was a room,” she says. “With blood on the floor, and golden lights. But they were…unsettling. I don’t remember what things looked like when I ran.” She takes a step forward, putting a hand on the edge of the doorframe, and Cody tenses—

Torches kindle, lighting the dark hallway that curves upwards.

Uneasy, Cody glances at Mace, who’s frowning faintly. “It looks like an invitation,” Mace says after a moment.

“It looks like a _trap_ ,” Cody says frankly, but he doesn’t stop Mace when he steps forward. Echoing through Mace, one step removed from his own emotions, he can feel Mace's curiosity, the wariness, the strange pull to investigate that’s one note off normal. “Mace?”

“This tunnel leads up more sharply than the main one,” Mace offers. “And there are stairs.”

Cody opens his mouth to ask if he’s just seeing things, then remembers with a flash of breathless heat just why he isn't. He stops short, and Mace glances back over his shoulder with a flicker of amusement. It’s enough to make Cody's skin heat, but he determinedly controls the reaction and follows.

“You think we should take a look?” he asks, and almost reaches for Mace's hand automatically, but—it’s not necessary. Not anymore.

Even so, Mace turns his hand, letting their fingers brush. He doesn’t glance at Cody, but Cody can still feel that most of Mace's attention is turned on him, _aware_ in a way that prickles across Cody's skin like the first press of their mouths together.

“I think,” Mace says quietly, “that someone resurrected Anakin's mother, and finding out both who and why is in our best interests.”

That, Cody's willing to admit, is a good point. Even if they head to the surface right now, meet Anakin, and get off this planet, there's no way Anakin would just leave his mother alone here. Which means taking her with them. And if she’s dangerous, that could end in even more of a disaster.

“I'm convinced,” he says dryly, and Mace snorts. His humor ebbs around Cody like a tide for an instant before he marshals it, and Cody feels a flicker of pleasure that’s similar to what he normally gets when he makes Rex laugh, but—bigger. Brighter.

He just kissed Mace on the mouth. It shouldn’t feel brave to skim his knuckles over the back of Mace's hand, one careful brush that makes something shiver through his mind. It’s not his own reaction, either, and just _knowing_ that—

Well. Cody's only human. His thoughts want to dive straight down into the gutter, but he marshals them with an effort of supreme will and asks, “Ladies first? She impressed _me_ with her blaster skills.”

Behind him, Fives squawks in indignation, and Mace smiles, just faintly. Shmi, when Cody glances back, looks quietly pleased, but she pats Fives on the arm sympathetically, and Cody definitely catches a murmured apology for hitting him.

“You're the one with the Sith warblade,” Mace points out. He glances back, and says, “Fives. There's a creature feeding us illusions. Ask us if you see anything alarming.”

“I can do that,” Fives says, unhappily resigned. “More Sith tricks?”

“Indirectly,” Mace allows, and steps forward up the steep path, towards the staircase. There's a golden light spilling down it, staining the floor like burn scars, and Cody takes a deep breath before he follows.

Yeah. This is going to go _perfectly_.


	32. Chapter 32

Rex isn't in his bunk. 

Ponds has been up for a few hours now, waiting. Watching the clock, at the same time as he watches the empty bunk, and it’s rapidly ticking towards the morning shift without any sort of reappearance from the captain. 

Normally, Ponds would hardly be bothered by this. Rex is a good man, and he’s steady, and he’s been thrown into a bit of a tailspin with his general gone. Reasonable that he’d find sleep more difficult, or stay up long hours. But tonight, it’s a bit of an inconvenience not to know where he is, and Ponds doesn’t like unknows much. 

Another three pages of his book don’t bring Rex any closer to returning, though, and finally Ponds can't put things off any more. He rolls out of bed and into his uniform, dressing in the dark and picking up a datapad as he leaves. The whole ship is quiet; without an active threat anywhere nearby, there’s a skeleton crew left to man the off-shift hours, and Ponds only spots a handful of clones as he makes his way down the nearly-empty halls. Waxer smiles at him, and one of the 501st shinies gives him a respectfully wide berth, but there are no other incidents as Ponds makes his way past crew quarters and onto the bridge. 

Quiet, grim, Neyo is watching the roil of red across the viewport, hands locked behind his back. When Ponds joins him, he glances over briefly before turning his eyes forward again, and says, “A thin spot in the nebula. What are the odds of finding that?”

Despite Neyo’s reputation as a double-concentrated bastard, Ponds has never had a problem with him. He hums, finding the same point in the Caldera, and says, “Sure was nice of that ship to lead us right to it.”

Neyo’s smirk is thin. “It was,” he agrees. “If only we could find that cruiser now.”

Ponds smiles. “Well, the techs said the nebula was blocking us from tracking the transponder. If we could get past it, it might be possible.”

“Thin point’s too small for a cruiser our size, and there’s no way we’ll get authorization to look when the Caldera’s involved. Sith still make the Republic twitchy.” Neyo studies the stars for another moment, then says, “General Windu isn't going to be happy we left him alone with Skywalker for so long.”

Especially given Skywalker's reaction to him getting married, Ponds thinks with a wince. “Could have been the Gungan senator again,” he offers, and Neyo grimaces. 

For a moment, the silence stretches between them, and then Neyo says, “I would have thought it would be you.”

“Me?” Ponds echoes, raising a brow at him. 

“The rumors,” Neyo says. “The general getting married to the 212th’s commander. Thought it would have been you.”

Ponds smiles a little, shakes his head. “I respect the general,” he says. “And I think of him as a friend. And regardless, he and Cody—it’s sweet.”

He’s not the type for romance, personally. Doesn’t want or need it to be happy. But he’s thought, before, that the general is a man who drags himself forward regardless of support, with a thousand obstacles in his path. And Mace is good and persevering, good at fighting to keep them all safe, but—

He doesn’t have much of anything for himself except the Order, and that’s more burden than blessing a lot of the times. Ponds has lost count of all the times Mace has saved them on the battlefield, and finding someone who will support him off of it, who’s a reason for him to stop working, well. There’s no way Ponds would object to that. 

Neyo pulls a face, but doesn’t argue. “Thought we were going to have to space the whole 212th when they threw a fit about a _kiss,”_ he mutters. “Like their general doesn’t practically throw himself at Ventress.”

“Knowing Cody,” Ponds says dryly, “causing that reaction is half the fun.”

“I guess he has a few redeeming features,” Neyo says darkly. “If he puts so much as a bruise on General Windu, though, we’re going to have words in a dark alley somewhere.”

Ponds chuckles. “I know several thousand troopers who would happily play second,” he says, and doesn’t feel even a little bad about it. Cody's a brother, but Mace is their _general._ “Seen Captain Rex this shift?”

Neyo grunts. “He was skulking around the training rooms with one of his shinies,” he says, unimpressed. “Need him distracted?”

Neyo’s the kind of straightforward vod who likes simple solutions to his problems, and if Ponds says yes there will probably be a squad dispatched forthwith to jump Rex in a hallway somewhere and haul him off to a closet with a sturdy lock. Restraining a wince, Ponds shakes his head, and asks, “Is General Kenobi up?”

“Just dragged himself to his office with a cup of tea,” Neyo confirms.

“Perfect.” Ponds activates his comm, punches in Rex's code, and says, “Rex, you still up?”

There's a moment, and then an answering click. “Commander. What’s breaking now?”

“My brain,” Ponds says easily. “Looking at General Kenobi. He does know what sleep _is,_ doesn’t he?”

Rex groans. “He’s up? Again?”

“Headed for his office, but I think he cleaned the mess out on tea before that,” Ponds confirms. 

“This is when I really need Cody,” Rex mutters. “Thanks, Ponds.”

“Good luck,” Ponds returns, and closes the link. “General-wrangling should keep him occupied for now.”

“For a while,” Neyo mutters, sounding disapproving. “You’ve got everything else you need?” 

“Should.” Ponds checks the time, then nods to Neyo and hands over the pad. “Thanks, vod.”

Neyo nods curtly. “Eyes open,” he says. “Techs are repairing the damage Grievous’s fleet did, but the system’s been flickering all night. Never know when a tech might pull the wrong wire and leave us drifting with only life support.”

“Don’t sound so excited about it,” Ponds says dryly, and Neyo smirks. Ponds leaves him to it, vanishing back out into the halls and taking the lift down. It jars once as darkness ripples across the ship, but Ponds doesn’t let it startle him; he just catches his balance, waits four seconds, and breathes out as the lift starts up again. 

The next blackout comes as he’s heading down the hall towards the hangar, and this one lasts for six seconds, flickers back to brightness, and then takes the lights out for another nine seconds. 

In the strange wash between emergency lights and regular lights, Ponds walks through the door of the hangar, and smiles. 

“Looks like you picked up a tagalong,” he tells Razor, who pulls a face. At his side, Commander Tano lifts her chin, arms folded over her chest. 

“I _knew_ it,” she says. “I knew you were planning something.”

Stak snorts. “Because you were planning something, and our paths happened to cross,” he tells her. “Nice try, Commander.”

Ahsoka rolls her eyes at them. “Well?” she asks Ponds. 

They are, technically, the same rank, even if the lines can get a bit fuzzy sometimes. Ponds meets her eyes without wavering, and says, “The Republic forbids access to the Stygian Caldera due to the number of traps and mines left over from the last war. Not to mention the nebula disrupts hyperspace travel across it.”

Ahsoka frowns, like she doesn’t know whether to take him at face value or not. “My Master is on the other side of that thing,” she says. “And so is Master Windu. If you're going through, I'm coming with you.”

“Who says we’re going anywhere?” Ponds asks mildly, and from the edge of the closest ship, Brass snorts. 

Ahsoka gives Ponds an incredulous look. “All of Lightning Squadron, down here in the middle of the night?” she asks, waving a hand at the troopers scattered around the hangar. “In _armor?”_

“Training exercise,” Ponds says, perfectly bland. 

Razor makes a soft sound of amusement. “Sir,” he says, and when Ahsoka and Ponds both look at him, he raises his hands. “Might be useful to have a Jedi with us, Commander.”

“For our _training exercise,_ you know,” Ayo says, bracing a shoulder against the edge of the ship’s ramp. “No telling what might come up.”

“Especially so close to Sith space,” Clip agrees, though he doesn’t turn from where he’s assessing stores. 

Ahsoka refolds her arms and gives Ponds a challenging, stubborn look that she definitely learned from Skywalker. “If you don’t let me come, I’ll take this to Commander Neyo,” she warns. 

“I thought the Jedi were above blackmail,” Ponds says, amused, and checks the time again. “Clip, Ayo, good?”

“Systems prepped and ready, sir,” Clip answers, sitting back in his heels. “General Billaba might think we’re a bunch of gossip-hounds, though. She caught me and Brass talking earlier and we had to switch topics suddenly.”

“I don’t want to know what to,” Ponds says, resigned. When Brass opens his mouth, he raises his hands. “No, I meant that, don’t tell me.”

Brass snorts, and offers, “Commander Tano, you’ve got some kind of bond with General Skywalker, right? If you're close enough, can you find him?”

“Of course,” Ahsoka says fiercely. “I just need to be in range. I think the Caldera’s blocking me, too.”

“Then let’s get you across it,” Ponds says, and when she jerks around to look at him in surprise, he smiles faintly. “Just as a training exercise, of course.”

The lights flicker again, going out for a solid ten seconds before they slowly come back. 

Ponds gives them another moment to be sure they're not about to go out again, then says, “I think that means Neyo’s getting impatient. Lighting Squadron, move out!”

“Sir yes sir!” Blowback grins at him from inside the ship for an instant before he pulls his bucket on. “You know, Captain Rex is going to yell at you for leaving him out. That favorite shiny of his, too.”

Ayo makes a rude sound. “If he yells at the commander, I get to lock him in a ‘fresher,” he says. “No offense, Commander Tano.”

“None taken,” Ahsoka says, amused. “But Rex fights back, you know.” She follows Ponds up the ramp, Razor, Stak, and Brass behind her, and says, “You know where you’re going?”

“Of course,” Clip says, and he and Ayo settle themselves into the cockpit. “The commander swiped Grey’s coordinates, and the trace of that signal. We’ll try to track them while we’re there.”

“Our priority is the generals, though,” Ponds says firmly. “We get through the nebula, recover them, and get back out.”

“Great,” Ahsoka says determinedly. “So how do we get there without someone on the deck noticing and just dragging us back with a tractor beam?”

Razor snorts. “Have some faith in Lightning,” he says. “We’re not Torrent, but we get things done.” He checks his comm, then waves a hand at Ayo and Clip. “Hangar doors are opening in five.”

“Perfect timing,” Ponds murmurs, double-checking the time. He sends a quick message to Neyo, then says, “Let’s go.”

“Sir,” Clip says, and the rumble of the engines washes over them. A moment later, the ship is lifting off, and just as they pass the doors, there's a ringing thud. Every light on the _Endurance_ goes out all at once. 

“They’ll be dead in the water for the next ten minutes,” Ponds says. “Make them count, Clip.”

“Or you lose a bet to Neyo? We’d never put you through that, vod,” Clip jokes, but he sets them on a course straight for the thin spot of the nebula. “Everyone strap in, this is going to be bumpy.”

“If you're saying that, I think I'm scared,” Razor says, but he drops into one of the seats, pulling the straps tight across his chest. “Commander Tano, two extra seats over here.”

“Thanks, Sergeant,” Ahsoka says with a quick smile, and settles in. Glances up at Ponds, and asks, “Are you going to get in trouble with Master Windu for this?”

Ponds will never understand how so many people have precisely the wrong idea about his general. Even other Jedi, which is the most baffling part of it. “General Windu's risked himself to rescue us plenty of times,” he says. “This is just us returning the favor. Ayo?”

“No scanners on us. We’re all clear, sir.” Ayo eyes the approaching nebula, then takes a breath. “We should be out of range well before they notice.”

As planned. Ponds doesn’t want anyone launching rescue missions for them, and his message to Grey, timed to reach him after a full cycle without their return, will make that clear. Of course, Ahsoka's presence complicates things a little, but—Ponds understands her wanting to get her Master back. He wasn’t about to say no. 

“Then I think it’s time to go save the generals,” he says, and Clip guns it for the gap without hesitation.

The room at the top of the stairs is vast and dark, black stone and red gems and the strange, violent spread of golden light that washes across the floor like pooling blood. Mace takes one step into the space and stops dead, hardly able to breath through the roil of Dark energy that claws down his spine. 

“Sith,” he says, and isn’t sure whether he means it as a curse or an explanation. 

“That seems to be the summary of every last problem we’ve had so far on this planet,” Cody mutters, and his shoulder brushes Mace’s as he passes, taking three long steps into the shadowy room with his sword in hand. “Dead people aren’t supposed to be _nearly_ this much of a pain.”

“If Sith are good at one thing, it’s pain,” Mace says dryly, and forces his feet to motion. He saw the Theed reactor room after Obi-Wan’s fight with Maul, saw the aftermath of the battle between Obi-Wan, Anakin, and Dooku on Geonosis. Both of those places reeked of Sith power, dark and corrupted and _hungry._ This room is the same, in the way that a candle flame is the same as a sun: the same concept, but massively different in execution, to the extent that there’s hardly a point in comparing them. 

The energies here are old, settled. They’ve dug themselves into the stone to the point that nothing will ever move them, and they _want,_ with the greed of a thing that was fed regularly for centuries and has been starving ever since. 

“Oh,” Shmi says, soft, almost ragged. Mace glances back, concerned, but she isn’t looking at him as she mounts the last few steps. Instead, her eyes are on the golden light, the raised platform in the center of the room. There are lit lanterns all around the edges of it, circling it, but their light shines red, not gold.

The golden light comes from lines, looping and jagged, that decorate the platform. And in the center of it—

A scorch mark. Like a flash-bang grenade went off in the middle of the array, leaving streaks right through the precise lines. One of the lanterns there has been knocked over, put out, like something escaped from the center of the ritual. 

Someone, Mace thinks, and glances back at Shmi. 

“This is where you came back,” he says, and feels the certainty of it in his bones. 

Shmi is still looking at the platform, at the marks, but she nods once, a quick, almost furtive tip of her head as she steps forward. “No one was here,” she says, and crosses to the altar. Leans down, picking up the fallen lantern, but instead of simply righting it, she swings for the dark stone, a strange sort of desperation on her face. 

The crash of breaking glass makes Cody twitch, but Mace touches his arm, lets him feel the way the oppressive dark weight lightens all at once, and he hesitates. 

“There’s another one,” Fives says, voice echoing oddly on the stairs. He’s watching their path back down, but when Mace turns to look at him, he points towards the other side of the room. It’s precisely the same array as was used on Shmi, but this one is intact, all the lanterns still burning, a circle of gold trapping whatever should be within. 

Mace knows, at a glance. Shmi must have escaped, but Qui-Gon didn’t. 

“Someone did this,” he says quietly, and steps forward. Goes to Shmi, because she’s so tense it looks like she’s about the crack, and carefully pulls her away from the spray of broken glass decorating the stone. “Actively, and recently.”

“Jinn appeared before we even reached the city,” Cody observes, a pace behind Mace as he warily scans the edges of the room. “I’m going to make an assumption and say that bringing people back from the dead isn’t the kind of thing you can just pull off with a couple of hours’ notice.”

“It isn’t the kind of thing you can pull off at all,” Mace say, frowning. “The Sith can’t resurrect the dead. Not to full life. Qui-Gon is still a ghost, and the zombies certainly wouldn’t be mistaken for living things.” He glances at Shmi, and asks, “All you did was stand up and leave?”

Shmi nods. “There was no one here, and it felt…wrong,” she says. “I knew I had to get away, or something terrible would happen.”

An attempted resurrection, of her spirit at the very least. Mace looks back at the scorch marks, frowning, and—

Both Qui-Gon and Shmi are very carefully selected, people Anakin loved and lost and who he wouldn’t be able to bring himself to fight. Either one of them would make for a devastating opponent, but together, there’s no way he would have won. One of them would have killed him, or left him completely vulnerable. And if he _had_ fought back, if he’d killed them in a world as full of Darkness as Dromund Kaas, all of that rage and pain and betrayal would be his undoing. 

“This was a trap meant for Anakin, and Anakin alone,” Mace says grimly. “Whoever performed these rituals, they knew we would crash here, and they knew Anakin would be with us.”  
  
“But it was a hyperspace mistake,” Fives protests. “Even if us following Grievous was a trap, how would they know that we’d come out _here,_ of all places? Or that we’d survive the crash?”

Mace snorts. “You’re thinking logically,” he tells Fives. “But with the Force—”

“Someone saw the future?” Cody asks grimly. “Well enough to predict _this?”_

“But it didn’t work,” Shmi says. “I escaped. They didn’t account for that.”

“Somehow,” Mace says, eyeing the scorch mark, “I doubt they actually accounted for you. Or the fact that once before, the Force chose you for something impossible.”

Shmi’s eyes widen, and she pauses. Twists her hands together, just for a moment, and then takes a breath that shakes faintly. 

“It never saved me.” Her voice is hoarse. “Fifty years as a slave and it never—” She breaks off, swallowing, and says, “Even from the Sand People, and they _killed_ me.”

“No,” Mace agrees, grave, and—it’s a lesson he’s learned a hundred thousand times, but somehow, it never gets easier. “The Force is simply energy. It won’t save anyone without help.”

Shmi’s expression twists, and after a long moment she takes a slow breath. “But this time, it did,” she says, and leans down to pick up a shard of red glass, long and sharp. “The same way it created Ani.”

“Energy, changing from one state to another,” Mace agrees. “But you escaped on your own.”

“Yes.” Shmi touches the glass, light, and then curls her hand around it. “We need to find Anakin. Someone here wants to hurt him, or lead him to the wrong places. He won’t know that.”

Low, grating, laughter rises from the shadows. “But you won’t,” a voice mocks, and Mace spins, lightsaber in hand as Cody matches him. Takes a step forward—

Nostrem grins at them from the darkness, wide and mad. “You have to get _out_ to save your friend,” he mocks. “And no one gets out. Not even me, and I built it!”

“Uh,” Fives says warily, and Mace can hear a tentative step. “I know you said if I see anything alarming to tell you, but…guy in robes yelling about stuff?”

“Real,” Mace warns.

“Oh, good,” Fives mutters, and a moment later he falls in on Mace’s other side, blaster leveled right at Nostrem. “Just checking.”

Careful, deliberate, Cody shifts a step forward, and Mace touches his mind, feels the intent. Steps sideways in response, and sees Cody’s mouth pull up in a faint smile. “This didn’t go so well for you last time, Nostrem,” Cody warns. “You sure you want to try it again?”

Nostrem levels a finger at him, and the grin shifts into fury. One pace forward and he draws his lightsaber, a wash of red filling the air as it ignites. _“You!_ You have that blade and you _shouldn’t!”_

“No one else was using it,” Cody retorts. 

With a hiss, Nostrem advances. _“No one_ should have that blade. You stole it!”

“Why does everyone keep saying that?” Cody mutters, eyeing the ghost. “I borrowed it from a tomb. The guy’s not going to miss it unless he’s running around as a zombie.”

A sound of absolute fury tears from Nostrem, and he lunges. Instantly, Cody twists to the side, and Mace steps in, sweeping a blow right at Nostrem’s head. He has to jerk around to block the lightsaber, and in the same moment Cody turns, warblade flashing out. 

It misses Nostrem by a hair’s breadth as he wrenches back, and when he lashes out, lightning sparks. Mace lunges, a warning flaring down his bond with Cody, but it’s half a second too late. Cody goes down with a cry, jerking, warblade tumbling from his grip. Before Nostrem can reach him, though, Mace is there, driving him backwards with three vicious strokes. The edge of darkness that Vaapad brings is closer, easier to reach with the pain that echoes down the connection, and Mace lets it take him. Lets himself feel the eagerness, the threads of rage, and takes them. Wraps them around himself, lets them drive him faster, swifter—

Feels it echo in Cody’s chest, the surge of adrenaline and _fight_ that crests like a wave, even as he pushes up on his knees. 

Nostrem’s blade falters, and he throws up a hand. The world wrenches sideways, and suddenly it’s Cody in front of Mace, Cody bleeding, staggering upright. 

Cody’s laugh is choked, victorious. “Don’t you _dare,”_ he says, and Mace cuts right through the false image, driving his lightsaber right through Nostrem’s chest as the ghost howls in pain and fury, reeling. Steps back, reaching, and Cody’s hand grabs his. He hauls himself to his feet, warblade scraping loud across the stone, and lunges right past Mace as he takes a step to the side. 

The blade of the sword takes Nostrem’s head off in one clean sweep, and a wash of Dark energy detonates like a grenade going off. Mace throws up a hand, blocking it with a surge of will, and hears wind howl around them, sees the light flicker. And then—

Silence, ringing and empty. 

Slowly, carefully, Mace lets the barrier of Force drop, takes a step. Cody turns, already reaching for him, and Mace reaches back, the edge of vicious victory already bleeding into relief and joy, and when Cody grabs him, it’s easy to answer. To lean in as Cody pulls him down, and this is less deliberate, less careful. Cody kisses him hard, and it’s new, startling. Mace hasn’t kissed anyone but Cody in years, and this—

Cody’s mouth it warm, firm. He kisses like he desperately wants to, and between them Mace can feel the edges of heat, of want, of something brighter and sharper and sweeter, and thinks—

But Cody’s fingers press against the back of his neck, cup the curve of his skull, and it’s hard to think of anything at all. 

Then, just as quick, Cody is pulling away, breathless, with adrenaline a hot thing in his veins. “Hell,” he breathes. “Maybe it’s a good thing we don’t serve together, if it’s always going to be like that.”

Mace can’t help but smile, resting their foreheads together. Feels the grip on the back of his neck tighten, and only just manages to control his breath before it hitches. Cody feels the reaction anyway, and watching his eyes flutter closed is somehow just as great a victory as defeating Darth Nostrem. 

“I’ve never heard you curse before,” he says, amused. “If a fight affects you so much—”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Cody warns, and kisses him again, an edge of teeth skimming Mace’s lip before he deepens it. It makes his breath catch, and he feels Cody’s flare of victory, the wash of _intent—_

“Oh _kriff,”_ Fives says, loud. “Are you _kissing?_ Why are you kissing, it was _one ghost.”_

Cody pulls back, his growl loud even over Shmi’s muffled laugh. “Shiny,” he warns. “Keep that up and I’ll push you down the stairs.”

“Kix was right, the 212th is all bullies,” Fives laments. “Come on, I know you’re married, but—”

Mace leans in, taking Cody’s mouth in a longer, slower kiss despite Fives's sound of protest, and Cody’s amusement is a warm-bright weight along his spine. “You fight well,” he murmurs, and Cody’s laugh is quiet. His fingers trace a pattern over Mace’s skull, and he hums. 

“I think it’s we fight well,” he counters. “Together.”

There’s certainly no denying that. Mace kisses him again, and it feels just like the dark edges of Vaapad vanishing back into the light of peace. 


	33. Chapter 33

Thorn and Rys are both unsteady on their feet, uncertain, jumping at shadows, and Anakin can't even manage to feel annoyed by it. Just grim, a little horrified, a lot angry, and—

He’s used to being angry. Used to the edge of rage and recklessness so close to the surface that it sometimes feels like he can't think of anything else. But right now, they’re _alone._ The only people on this planet are him, Master Windu, and the clones, and it’s easy, in light of that, to think of them as _his_ men. Even the Coruscant Guard, distant from the front as they usually are, have a connection. Fox and Thire have saved Padmé. Thorn has been her guard on diplomatic missions. Kix is friends with Jek and Rys. They’re _Anakin's,_ by virtue of that, and so he’s going to save them. The odds don’t matter. 

They just have to steal that ship first. 

“Sir,” Kix says, soft, and Anakin pauses, glancing back. The narrow service corridor seems deserted, so he raises a brow, and Kix grimaces, then reaches up to pull his helmet off. “Fives and General Windu, and Commander Cody—can you sense anything?”

Anakin frowns, then closes his eyes, reaching out carefully. There are unfamiliar minds in the citadel, and he avoids them carefully, reaches instead for anyone he knows, but—

“No,” he says finally. “But they're not dead.” They _can't_ be. “The ship’s scanners should be able to find them just fine.”

Kix doesn’t look overly happy, but he nods, hooking his helmet to his belt. As best he can, Anakin grins at him, clapping him lightly on the shoulder, and says, “Come on, Kix, what’s the wo—mmph.”

“Sorry, sir,” Kix says, aggrieved, and doesn’t move his hand from over Anakin's mouth. “But last time you said that we walked into a city full of zombies, ran into a Sith Lord, and found out that most of the Guard is probably under his control. Do you really want to risk what will happen if you say it again?”

Rolling his eyes, Anakin peels Kix’s hand off his face. _I think the Sith Lord is my long-time mentor and the Supreme Chancellor of the Republic. It would be hard for things to actually get worse_ , he doesn’t say, but—he’s thinking it, and it’s an uncomfortable lump in his throat. He _really_ wishes Master Windu was here. 

Still, Kix might have a point about tempting fate. Things are plenty weird enough already. 

“Fine,” he allows. “I won't say it. But—”

A scream. Hoarse, familiar, full of pain, and Anakin is running before he can even think to move, rounding a corner, leaping up a flight of stairs and launching himself from a landing right to the top. The scream comes again as he touches down, and he throws himself around the next corner, fury rising, lightsaber in hand. The blade ignites as he swings, and a dark-haired Human woman wrenches back, the ‘saber just missing her throat. In front of her, crumpled on the ground, Fox slumps like a puppet with its strings cut, and the sound he makes is almost a sob. Anakin lunges with a sound of fury, driving his blade right at her chest. 

A red blade blocks it, and the woman hisses, pleasure and fury rising. 

“A _Jedi,”_ she says, darkly delighted. “Oh, you're the one we were waiting for, aren’t you, Skywalker?”

Anakin presses in, putting force on the blade, driving her back a step and away from Fox. “If you wanted my attention, you got it,” he says viciously. “Who the hell are you?”

The woman laughs. “Merili,” she says. “High Prophet Merili, of the Prophets of the Dark Side. What do you think of Dromund Kaas, my lord Vader? Isn't it a planet fit for an emperor?” She steps to the side, lightsaber twisting through her fingers, and smiles. “Or the emperor’s right hand.”

“There’s no emperor,” Anakin retorts, but—there's a chill sliding down his spine, something that sinks its claws into his brain and won't let go. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

Merili smiles, wide and wild. “But you _will,”_ she says. “No one sees the future more clearly than I do, Lord Vader. I know _exactly_ what you’ll become. Lord Sidious knows, too. We _have you._ All I have to do is show you what’s meant to pass.”

Anakin's breath sticks in his throat, and he grits his teeth. Sets his feet, and doesn’t let her words move him. “No,” he says. “It’s not real. No one knows the future. Not for certain.”

 _“Prophets,”_ Merili says, insistent, and laughs at Anakin's scowl. “We’re the Dark Lord’s chosen prophets, Vader. You’ll see what I mean.”

“No,” Anakin challenges, not about to let her sway him. “And stop _calling_ me that. My _name_ is Anakin Skywalker!”

Merili raises her hand, and the world shivers. Her grin grows, and Anakin feels a flare of pure alarm, leaps back—

The world shifts. 

It looks just like his dreams. Padmé on a medical bed, her face twisted in pain as she screams. Anakin freezes, horror pounding through his bones, and just for a second he can't breathe at all. Stares at Padmé, heart wrenching forward into a viciously fast pace, and feels desperation claw its way up his spine. He loves Padmé. He can't lose her. He _can't._ If she dies, and he can't save her—

“You _can_ save her,” Merili says, and steps through the shadowed edges of the vision with a wave of her hand, mane of black curls catching the red light of her ‘saber. “The Dark Side has the power you need, Vader. If you accept the Dark, if you learn our ways, you can undo death. you can save her life.”

“No,” Anakin says, but it rasps in his throat, hoarse. “I'm a Jedi. This isn't the future yet.”

Merili laughs. “If you're a Jedi, it certainly isn't,” she taunts, and the world shifts around them, a vision of the Coruscant temple rising like a cresting wave. There's a figure moving up the stair, black cloak, purposeful stride, and Anakin looks into his own face, into yellow eyes, and feels desperately, deeply cold right down to his bones. 

“No,” he breathes, and then, louder, voice cracking, _“No!_ It’s not the future!”

Merili’s grin is all teeth, all darkness. “But you haven’t even gotten to the best parts yet!” she says, and spreads her hands out. Another shift—

Padmé. Not dying, but almost worse, because she’s looking at him with fear in her eyes, one hand at her throat, the marks of a Force-tight choke already blooming on her skin. _It’s like I don’t even know you, Ani_ , she says, and Anakin feels it jar through him, rejection, anger, shock. Sees Obi-Wan, behind her, watching him, and _knows._

_You betrayed me_ , he says, but—

But that’s not right. Padmé wouldn’t. She _couldn’t._ And Obi-Wan would never, ever do that to him. Not in a hundred centuries. 

Except—

_Except._

The whole world is nothing but Darkness, shadows as far as the eye can see. Merili burns with them, terrible and dark, and she’s watching him with glee, like she’s waiting, like she _knows._ Like she can see the betrayal coming, and this is the edge of it. A warning, because Padmé is going to betray him, and he could just _stop it—_

Somewhere beneath his feet, far far down in the deepest part of the shadows, a light kindles. Pure, bright, shining, it glows impossibly warm and steady, and suddenly Anakin can feel it. There are fingers in his head, feeding the darkness. A will besides his own, pressing against him. 

_“No,”_ Anakin snarls, and throws a hand up. Merili shouts in pain, but all around them, the images crack like glass, fall away. 

“It’s too late,” Merili says, laughing. “It’s coming, Vader. It’s always been inevitable. You’ve _made_ it inevitable. Clinging so tightly, refusing to let go—you would break the whole universe just to keep her, wouldn’t you? How _romantic.”_

It’s not enough. She _grabs_ at him, talons sinking into his brain, and Anakin staggers. Something _tears,_ wrenching through him, and he gasps, tries to shove her away—

Fives, dead on the ground, the Coruscant Guard around him. Echo, torn apart in a blast of fire. Obi-Wan, fired on by his own men and falling. Aayla, dead in a jungle with Bly lowering his blaster. Ahsoka, turning and walking away. Padmé, collapsed on the ground and clutching her throat, crying, _afraid._

“Get out of my _head!”_ he yells, but Merili just laughs. 

“This is the future, Vader,” she says mercilessly. “It’s coming. It’s almost here, and I can't _wait.”_

“No,” Anakin gets out, but his voice cracks. He trips, hits the ground on one knee—

Fox opens his eyes and looks up at him, dazed, nose bleeding, long scratches carved into his face. Stares, and Anakin can't do more than stare back, jaw clenched, fighting down the images, trying to keep Merili from just _taking—_

Fox’s eyes harden, his face sets. In one blindingly fast twist, he rolls, kicks out, and hits Merili in the knee with a sharp _crack._

Instantly, Merili screams. She drops, and it’s enough to loosen her hold on Anakin's mind. He lunges for his dropped lightsaber, then rolls upright, feels a wash of Force power try to grab him, but fights back, blocking her, straining against her. And—she’s powerful. She’s _angry,_ and that’s giving her more power, but Anakin can be angrier, he can _use_ that. 

_Dark emotions,_ something whispers. It sounds like his mother, warm but stern, and he freezes, suddenly not sure if it’s _him_ wanting to slide towards fury or those fingers back in his head. Can't trust himself, doesn’t _know,_ and here in the midst of so much darkness it’s impossible to tell. 

He falters, and Merili laughs raggedly, drags herself up onto her good knee. Raises both hands—

Fox doesn’t hesitate. He grabs for his blaster pistols, draws them, rolls up to his feet and aims even as he staggers. Fires, once, at point-blank range, and Merili collapses. 

She hits the ground and doesn't move again.

Anakin deactivates his lightsaber and lunges, catching the commander as he starts to fall. Bears him to the ground, quick, careful, and Merili isn't moving but he still presses his palms to Fox’s temples, breathes out. “Hang on, Commander,” he murmurs. “Think of nice things for just a minute. Kittens, or whatever. Something happy.”

Fox groans, and his mind is so tattered that Anakin hardly even knows where to start, but he can't leave Fox like this. Carefully, he builds up a partition between everything but what Fox is currently trying to reach for and the ruined places, and pushes as much darkness as he can back. 

“A vacation,” Fox mutters, and tips his head back against Anakin's shoulder, eyes closed. His expression is twisted up in pain, and Anakin doesn’t _want_ to look into his memories, but—

“I think that sounds like a good idea,” he says, amused despite himself, and teases out the first edge of blurred memory. Merili, smiling, leading Fox away from the group with a request. Fox, following blindly and then scratches across his face and a pain like electricity in his head. Merili’s laughter, her voice calling him _pet—_

Anakin shuts the memory away, then hesitates. Doesn’t want to reach for the rest, but grits his teeth and does it regardless, because he can't think of anything but the look in Fox’s eyes on the ground, the way he still kept going even after Merili _tortured_ him, just because she thought it was fun. 

If Fox can stand up and keep fighting after that, Anakin can do this. 

“What else?” he asks, finding the thickest, deepest of the Dark threads stitched through Fox’s mind. Triggers, so that just a touch of Force suggestion will wake them. “Another thing that makes you happy. First thing that comes to mind.”

Fox’s fingers dig into Anakin's knee as he unspins a tangle of orders, ready to activate with a single phrase. _Execute the traitor_ is the first one, and after that _protect the Chancellor_ , and after _that_ Anakin doesn’t look any further. 

“Senator Amidala,” Fox hisses, and Anakin pauses, startled. “She—she and Senator Organa—they bitch about the other senators’ fashion. It’s funny. Never—never mind guard duty when she’s there.”

Anakin breathes out a quiet laugh, and the inside of his chest aches. 

( _It’s always been inevitable. You’ve_ made _it inevitable. Clinging so tightly, refusing to let go—you would break the whole universe just to keep her, wouldn’t you? How_ romantic.)

He thinks of Padmé’s face twisted up in agony, and his hands want to shake. 

“Padmé’s got a lot of opinions on fashion, doesn’t she?” he asks, and Fox nods tightly, jerks when Anakin smooths over an edge of memory. It’s a senator, someone Padmé has mentioned, and Anakin hardly listened when she did but—

He sees the Guard, surrounding the man. Escorting him away, until Fox raises his blaster and takes one shot—

He’s a marksman. He hits what he aims at. 

_“Force,”_ Fox mutters, and his fingers dig in harder. Anakin doesn’t even try to protest. “Was that—did I do that? I don’t remember. I would have, he wasn’t escaping—”

“I know,” Anakin murmurs. “Happy things, Fox, come on—”

This time, it doesn’t work. “He was murdered,” Fox says, ragged. “Thorn investigated the case, but he couldn’t find who it was, there was no footage—”

 _“Fox,”_ Anakin says, sharper, and Fox’s eyes open again immediately. He stares up, and Anakin breathes out, then says, “Focus. Something happy. Just—I can help, but you have to let me.”

“Too much work,” Fox mutters, bitter. “Don’t bother, get Jek and Thire—”

 _“No,”_ Anakin says, angry. “I can save you. You don’t get to tell me who I can save or not!”

Stops, startled, and swallows. Wishes, suddenly and desperately, with every fiber of his being, that Obi-Wan was here, because he always knows what to say. Thinks of that, and tries to imagine what it would be like to be in control of himself, to not react with _I_ or _me_ every time someone else has a problem. 

“Come on,” he says, more quietly. “If you get through this, I’ll introduce you to Padmé, and then you can bitch about fashion together, all right? She’ll like you.”

Fox closes his eyes for a long, long moment, but then, abrupt, he jerks his head in a nod. “Do I want to know why you're calling the senator by her first name?” he asks, but there's a thread of amusement to it. 

Anakin laughs, just a little, and curls his hands more firmly around Fox’s head. “I’ll tell you later,” he promises, and says, quiet, “This is going to hurt, but—whatever she did, and whatever the Sith Lord did, I can fix it.”

Fox breathes out, gripping Anakin's knee. Nods again, and says, “Sir? The Sith Lord. He’s here. It’s the Supreme Chancellor.”

Anakin closes his eyes, swallows. “Yeah,” he says, and his voice cracks. “I know, Fox. I’ll take care of it.”

Fox’s exhale is all relief. “I trust you, sir. Always.”

He shouldn’t. But—

All Anakin can do is try. 

Shmi freezes halfway up the stairs, a lantern stolen from the ritual that recalled Qui-Gon swinging in her grip. Lifts her head, and says, with complete and utter certainty, “Anakin is in trouble.”

It’s not a surprise to hear, but Cody still draws a grim breath anyway. Trades looks with Mace, equally grim, and then says, “Fives. How far?”

“Left to go?” Fives pauses, glancing around the tunnel, and then grimaces. “I have no idea. Everything just looks the same.”

The perils of a tunnel made of solid rock, Cody thinks ruefully, but nods. “Double-time, then,” he orders. “Shmi—”

Shmi's smile is thin. “Believe me, Commander, I can keep up. But thank you for thinking of me.”

There's an edge to her expression like a mother nexu with her cubs in danger, daring them to question it, and Cody accepts that with a nod. Anakin had to get his everything from somewhere, and apparently his mother was the main source. His mother and the Force, and knowing as many Jedi as Cody does, that explains a hell of a lot about the general in all sorits of ways. 

He catches a flicker of amusement from Mace at the thought, and—it’s still unsettling, a little, but Cody covers the instant of hesitation with a light jab, and the thought _I absolutely mean you too_. 

Mace glances sideways at him, then turns his eyes forward again, like that will hide the fact that he’s smiling just a little. _I have no idea what you're referring to._

Cody thinks of the cave-in, when he trapped himself with Qui-Gon and Nostrem. Thinks of the crash, and how he shielded Kix. Thinks of the zombies, and the temple in the jungle, and every other ridiculous, dangerous thing he’s seen Mace do since they landed on Ord Radama, and wraps it up with the strong sense of his own disbelief, the first time he realized that Mace was proposing marriage for the sake of freeing all the clones. 

_Well,_ Mace offers after a moment, and the feeling of his humor is effervescent even if that tone is dry. _Maybe you have a point_.

“There's no _maybe_ about it,” Cody tells him, exasperated. 

Mace hums, eyes forward. Thinks, deliberately, of the kiss they just shared, the way the adrenaline bled into a different kind of buzz, the grip of Cody's hand on the back of his neck—

Cody very, very quickly looks away. It’s definitely not an appropriate moment, and he sends a thin jab of irritation at Mace and gets a raised eyebrow in return. 

_You're as bad as me_ , Mace reminds him, and Cody sighs through his nose, well aware of that fact but not about to admit it, even to himself. 

“Are you…doing something?” Fives asks suspiciously, looking between them. “Is there something happening here right now?”

Cody really, truly, _desperately_ wants to say “mind sex”. He wants it so badly it’s almost painful not to, and only Shmi and the danger Anakin is probably in stops him. He has to physically bite his tongue to keep the words in, though, and it’s Mace who answers, with a sidelong, entirely knowing glance at him. “We have a bond through the Force.”

Fives's face screws up. “Is that, like, a marriage thing?”

“Yes,” Mace confirms. “Or a partnership thing. Platonic partners or good friends will sometimes commit to it as well.” 

“Oh.” Fives looks vaguely relieved, and Cody mourns the lost opportunity to thoroughly horrify him. Maybe later, when Shmi is out of earshot, he tells himself, and the touch of Mace’s mind against his own is all patient _don’t torture him needlessly_. 

_Not needlessly_ , Cody retorts. It’s his job as a commander to keep people in order. Sometimes that’s by yelling. Sometimes that’s with a firm, mentorly hand to guide them. And sometimes that’s with a healthy sense of fear and horror at his general presence. Fives seems like he’ll benefit the most from the last. After all, he’s got Rex for the other two. 

There’s a distinct pause, startled. When Cody casts Mace a glance, though, Mace’s expression is warm in a way that Cody feels like a tug on his soul. 

_Well-matched_ , is all Mace thinks, but—

 _Oh._

It takes a second for Cody to catch his breath, and he has to force his mind back to Anakin, to the Sith. Focus is hard, takes effort, but it’s definitely the safer choice right now. 

“Think they’ve gotten to the ship yet?” he asks, in an effort to distract himself, and Mace frowns faintly. 

“If Anakin is in trouble, they either made it there or were waylaid,” he says. “I don’t like either option. Anakin is a strong Jedi, but a Sith Lord is not an opponent he can beat.”

But Mace can, probably. Cody sobers, trying to think of the angles, the approaches, and breathes in. “No way to just sneak in, get the ship, and run?” he asks. 

Mace’s sigh is faintly resigned. “If Anakin is already in danger, I would think not. Shmi?”

Behind them, Shmi hesitates. “He’s still alive,” she says. “But…I think he’s been noticed.”

That’s about as bad as being captured, given what they’re up against. Cody grimaces, resting a hand on the hilt of his warblade, and wishes for his blaster. He’s a good sniper; if the Sith Lord is distracted, or if Cody can distract him, that would give them the advantage. Of course, it’s also likely that whoever was in that diplomatic cruiser wasn’t alone, and that puts the odds firmly against them. 

“Fives,” he says, and glances back, finding Fives watching him attentively. “Focus on getting Shmi to the ship. And Kix, if he’s nearby.” Their medic’s a valuable resource, after all, and there’s no chance they’re going to get through this without even more injuries. Mace already needs a medic, but there’s not going to be a chance to stop once they hit the citadel.

“Yes, sir,” Fives says, and pulls the strap for his blaster over his head, holding it out. “You’re a better shot than I am, Commander.”

Cody takes it, and—the warblade is nice, and he appreciates it, but having a blaster back in his hands feels steadying. For a moment, he thinks about offering the sword in return, but remembers what Mace said about Force users touching it and grimaces. “Thanks,” he says. “What about you?”

Fives just shrugs. “Rys dropped his blaster when I stunned him. It’s probably still outside the citadel. And if not, I’ll figure something out. Whoever we’re fighting, I feel like blaster bolts will work on them about as well as they do the zombies.”

Not inaccurate, unfortunately. Cody nods, shouldering it, and glances over at Mace. “Like we planned?” he asks quietly. 

“Yes.” The humor has slid out of Mace’s expression, leaving him grim, set. “If the Sith Lord is there—”

At his hip, the warblade _burns._ At the same moment, somewhere close, loud in the hush, there’s a rumble. 

“Heck,” Cody hisses, and leaps back, flattening Shmi and Fives to the wall of the tunnel with a shove. Mace steps in front of them, hand up, and Cody _feels_ the ripple of effort as he reaches—

The staircase comes to life, twisting like a snake beneath their feet, bending into the side of the cliff. Dark stone splits like a knife just cut through it, wrenching apart into a wide, arching tunnel, and Mace stops a tumble of rocks before they can fall, sending them sliding sideways. They clatter down, out of what’s now the mouth of a high passage straight through the cliff, and Cody can’t even hear them land. 

When he glances back, a wide metal door is swinging open, eerily soundless, and a row of torches come to life down the grand hall. 

_“Kriff,”_ Fives says, loud in the returned silence. “What the hell was _that?”_

“A shortcut, I think,” Cody says, and draws the warblade, holding it up. The strange, shifting pattern that’s inlayed into the metal is glowing gold, the twisted hilt lit with threads of crimson. Strange, twisting runes cascade across the surface in a way that feels _aware,_ and Cody eyes it with a sense of resignation. 

“Maybe,” he says, “I should have asked Nostrem why he was yelling about the damned thing, instead of just trying to piss him off.”

Mace snorts softly, which is _wholly_ unappreciated. “Whoever owned it, they must have been powerful,” he says. “If they were given their own temple to house their tomb, and their sword acted as a key to passages into the citadel, I can’t imagine they were low-ranking Sith.”

Great. Even better, really. Cody considers the blade, then sighs and raises it. “I’ll take point. Mace?”

“I don’t feel anything waiting,” Mace says after a moment. “It seems this is the only path left, regardless.”

Yeah. And a semi-sentient Sith sword wants them to take it so much it moved a whole massive staircase to divert them. 

Cody really, really hates this planet.

“It’s the right way,” Shmi says unexpectedly, and takes a step away from the wall, Fives right behind her like a bodyguard. Cody approves of the instinct. “Ani is up there, at the end of the passage.”

That’s honestly not all that much more promising, given who’s probably in the citadel with him. 

Still, if it’s a quicker way back to the citadel, he’ll take it. As he starts down the corridor, Mace falls into step with him, one pace behind and one to the side, and says quietly, “Nostrem was sealed down here after he built the citadel. But someone created a blade that acted as a key to those traps.”

Meaning it was likely the person who sealed Nostrem down here to begin with, and probably the same person who had the citadel constructed.

“You said this was the seat of power for the Sith emperor?” he asks, resigned. Of _course_ the sword he picked up in a fit of desperation while a war worm was trying to eat him once belonged to the Sith emperor. Why not? Nothing else on this blasted planet has gone right. 

Mace inclines his head. “If it helps,” he says, a trace of amusement to the words that makes Cody give him a dirty look, “I think it likes you.”

That doesn’t help at all, and he knows it. Cody glares, and says, “I can still file for an annulment, you know.”

“Do you really want to?” Mace asks, and—

It’s not even Mace giving him the thoughts this time. Cody has to drag his gaze away from Mace’s mouth, from that maddening edge of a smile, and just breathe for an instant. 

Being attracted to his husband is a pain in the shebs. 

“Yes,” Cody lies. “Desperately.”

Mace raises a brow at him, and because Cody is annoyed, because he’s _definitely_ not thinking _again_ about pressing Mace up against a wall and kissing him until he loses that stupid smirk, Cody fixes his eyes forward and ignores Mace’s ripples of silver-bright amusement and steady faith, carrying them through the darkness. 


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the rating increase. I'm mostly doing it to be safe, but after the last few chapters I think it's warranted.

Midnight on Nar Shaddaa ends all attempts to pretend the moon isn't a hub of criminals.

Colt is twitchy at Shaak’s elbow, armor hidden back on the ship, blaster entirely visible across his back. Shaak can't see his face, but the first emotion when she brushes the edges of his mind is _annoyance_ , followed by _tension_ , and Shaak knows better than to try and calm him in this situation. He won't feel better until they're safely back on the ship, and that won't be for a while yet.

Gently, she touches his mind, just enough to make herself obvious, a silent _we walk into this danger together_ , and then reaches out, finding Blitz and Havoc in the midst of the press. Havoc is on the rooftops above them, shadowing their path with his jetpack to help him navigate the gaps between buildings, and Blitz is following on the ground, half a block behind. Both of them acknowledge her touches, not pausing, and Shaak leaves them to their plans.

“I really wish you’d wear a hood, sir,” Colt mutters from her side, and glares at a Toydarian that passes just a little too close.

Shaak snorts softly. “My montrals make it rather less than practical,” she says, dry, and Colt pauses for a moment before he sighs in rueful agreement. Chuckling, Shaak turns, and without a Jedi's robes no one even gives her a second glance as she passes into a dark, narrow alley lit more by the signs boasting the residents than any streetlights. Below their feet, one level down, Shaak can feel the hum of speeders, the press of more minds, but the one they're here for is up ahead, tucked back in a small bar between two offices. Shaak doesn’t let him know they’re coming, just pulls her mind back, letting her presence fade to almost nothing in the Force. Reaches out to Havoc instead, and he takes the instructions, agrees. Shaak can just see the edge of his form hunker down, blaster rifle coming up as he watches the entrance, and behind them Blitz closes the gap, slipping around to a side door and ducking through.

“Prepared for it to go badly?” Colt asks, and tugs the edge of the wrap around his face loose, eyes scanning the alley.

“With Quinlan? Always.” Shaak takes a step—

A hand catches her elbow, hauling her back and around, just before the door swings open. Colt shoves her into a shadowy corner, body blocking the sight of her from the street, as Asajj Ventress stalks out of the bar.

Shaak has been a Jedi too long to let her flare of alarm show. Doesn’t react aggressively, even though she wants to, because Ventress is a Jedi killer, a monster drowned in Darkness, and it _roils_ against Shaak's skin as Ventress pauses. She scans the alley, looking furious, and Shaak can't help her faint tensing as Ventress’s hand settles against one of her lightsabers.

Instantly, Ventress reacts. Her head turns towards them sharply, and Shaak drags Colt towards her another step, pulls his head down so that even his build will be hard to make out. Wraps her hands around the back of his head, shifts so that her lekku markings are hidden behind the width of his shoulders, and then realizes suddenly, starkly, that she has no idea what to do now. They need a reason to be like this, or Ventress will see, will _notice_ —

Colt's eyes are wide, startled, but as there’s a step behind them, he leans in, and Shaak catches one half-second flicker of _sorry, General, please don’t court martial me for this_ before his mouth slants over hers.

For one instant, Shaak is entirely caught off guard. Can't breathe, can't think, but Colt's hands are on her waist, hauling her up, and Shaak pulls the plan from his mind, wraps her arms around his neck and lets him lift her. Gets her legs around his waist, and a moment later Colt's back hits the wall of the bar as he laughs, loud and put-on, their mouths jarred apart by the force of it. Shaak laughs, too, makes it a drunken giggle, and it’s purely ridiculous, wholly absurd, but she ducks her head, leans down as Colt leans up, and—

It’s the perfect way to hide both of their faces, Shaak's markings, the fact that Colt is so clearly a clone. It’s clever and cunning and the perfect way to make someone avert their eyes, but—

But Colt's mouth is careful, even if it’s just a kiss for show. His hands under her thighs are gentle despite the strain of holding all her weight, and he tips his head up into it, breath hitching as his lips scrape Shaak's sharp teeth, the motion awkward with newness. Shaak hums in quiet apology, deepening the kiss, and Colt groans. His hands on her legs slide up, driving a hitching gasp from her throat as his grip tightens just faintly, and when he pulls away again, breathless, their faces just far enough apart for Shaak to see the surprise in his expression. Like he’s _startled_ by the fact that she would react to him, and Shaak laughs again, tilts his head back and kisses him once more, and between their minds she lets him see her admiration that isn't entirely for his devotion to his duty, the threads of warmth that rose and stayed when he implied he wanted to continue to stay beside her after the war ended. Frames it with an apology, for enjoying the kiss despite the circumstances—

Colt shudders, gasps against her mouth. An arm slides under her thighs, holding her up, and then his hand is on her back. His fingers curl around her lek, and Shaak jolts at the flare of sensation that scatters like lightning across her nerves, breathless with it. She moans before she can help it, and Colt slides his hand up it, just the faintest edge of nails scraping sensitive skin. Shaak shudders, fingers clenching tight on his shoulders, legs locked around his hips, and Colt's mind flickers hot and fast to another scenario, somewhere more private, vivid with enough detail to make Shaak groan.

“Ugh,” Ventress mutters, and Shaak can feel the flare of her knife-edged irritation. Deliberate, Colt wraps his whole hand around her lek, and Shaak moans, tips her head back just enough that her face won't show. With another sound of annoyance, Ventress turns, cloak swirling, and hauls her hood up as she stalks back toward the main street.

There's a moment of silence, broken only by the sound of their breathing. Then, slow, careful, Colt leans in, pressing a soft kiss against Shaak's lek where it falls over her shoulder. Shaak's breath hitches, and she smooths her fingers over the short prickle of his dark hair, then cups his cheek lightly and brushes a thumb across his lips.

“Definitely don’t apologize for enjoying that,” Colt says, rough—

Behind them, there’s a wolf-whistle, loud and piercing and entirely mocking. Colt freezes, and a growl bubbles up in his chest, pure, murderous intent spiking. “ _Blitz_ ,” he snarls.

Somewhere out of sight, Blitz _cackles_.

Colt doesn’t drop her, though, and Shaak laughs a little, shifting enough to grip his hips with her knees. Draping her other arm over his shoulders, she tips her head, and murmurs, “That was quick thinking, Commander.”

Deep in his throat, Colt makes a soft, pained sound, eyes sliding shut. “Please, sir. Don’t—don’t call me that right now.”

Shaak chuckles, and at the edge of her senses, she can feel Quinlan approaching, heading for the door of the bar. “You don’t care for it?” she asks.

“I think he likes it too much!” Blitz calls, sounding like he’s choking on his laughter.

Colt grimaces _deeply_ , and that flush would be adorable except for the deadly edge to his expression. “I'm going to kill him. Your plan will work with just two of us, right?”

With a smile, Shaak leans in, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Why risk it?” she asks. Tips her head, and as a tangle of dark emotion and grim determination bursts into clarity, she pitches her voice and says, “Quinlan.”

In the alley, Quinlan wrenches around, then freeze. Shaak can feel the prickle of his suspicion, the way his power, Dark-edged, curls around him. There's a long pause, and then he says warily, “Look, lady, I don’t know what you want—”

At a mental nudge, Colt loosens his grip, and Shaak drops to her feet, not bothering to straighten her clothes. Turns, and gives Quinlan a perfectly composed smile, inclining her head to him. “You don’t,” she says. “But I believe we can help each other.”

Quinlan's eyes widen, flickering from her to Colt for a long beat, and then he snorts. Mouth curving up, he tilts his head, and asks, “Your boyfriend going to gut me if I offer to buy you a drink, sweetheart?”

Shaak raises a brow at him, shifting back, and Colt curls a hand around her hip, more than willing to play up the implication. He’s tense again, ready to pull his blaster at a moment’s notice, but Shaak puts a hand on his arm and simply smiles. “As if I couldn’t gut you myself, Vos,” she says.

Quinlan's expression twists, just for a moment, and he crosses the space between them, something rueful slipping into his features. “I'm not sure I can take hearing you talk like a Nar Shaddaa gangster without something in my brain breaking, Master Ti,” he says, quiet enough that they won't be overheard. “You definitely look the part, though.”

Shaak chuckles, leaning in, and Quinlan kisses her cheek like they're old friends, sure to put anyone watching at ease. “I've done plenty of undercover work, Quinlan,” she reminds him. “This is hardly new.”

“No, but this time you're risking Dooku seeing you.” Quinlan looks her over, frowning, and asks, “What’s happened?”

“A conspiracy,” Shaak says mildly, “against the Jedi as a whole. Engineered or at least orchestrated by your new Master.”

Quinlan's expression darkens. “The whole Order?” he demands. “How?”

“Us,” Colt says, quiet. “Chips in our heads, to make us obey certain orders.”

Quinlan flicks a glance at him, distrustful. “And you brought _them_ as backup?” he demands to Shaak. Hesitates, expression twisting, and asks, “You were _kissing_ him?”

“Ventress passed, and she would doubtless know our faces,” Shaak says. “But yes, I brought Colt. He and his batchmates don’t have the chips.”

“Does that one serving with Aayla?” Quinlan asks, voice tight. “That—Bly, or whatever. He has one?”

“All the rest,” Colt confirms, and his frown is equally as unfriendly as Quinlan's narrow look. “There are probably seventy-five of us left without them. All the other clones, though—they're chipped.”

“Seventy-five out of _millions_. Sith,” Quinlan mutters, and rubs a hand over his face. “Why are you _here_ , Master Ti? Shouldn’t you be dealing with this back on Kamino?”

“Not under these circumstances, Quinlan. The time for direct action has come.” Shaak smiles, curling her hands together, and tries not to let the edges of her intent bleed through. Quinlan is already dealing with enough pressure from all the dark emotions here. “I'm going to find Dooku and bring him to justice.”

Quinlan eyes her for a long moment. “Kill him, you mean,” he says, though there's no judgment in his voice.

“If I must,” Shaak allows, because she refuses to flinch from the reality of the situation. “He has made himself an enemy of the Republic, and I will defend it however I need to.” She tilts her head, studying Quinlan's expression, and says, “I don’t have the authority of the full Council behind me, Quinlan, but—if you assist me with this, your mission will be over.”

Quinlan grimaces, folding his arms over his chest. “Unless Dooku's the only one with the keys here, this isn't going to be enough,” he counters. “I've been trying to figure out who his Master is for months now, and all I’ve gotten is a hell of a lot of nothing. If you end Dooku, what’s to stop the Sith Lord from just switching all those chips on right then and there?”

“Agen is dealing with the chips from his end,” Shaak says, and can't help but laugh at the face Quinlan pulls. “You know he’s very fond of you, Quinlan. He wouldn’t have tried so hard to bring you in if he wasn’t.”

“You set the Council’s attack dog on me,” Quinlan counters. “He almost picked a fight with a _Hutt_.”

“He’s rather overzealous sometimes,” Shaak allows, and ignores Colt's snort. “Quinlan. This is _necessary_. You have gotten nowhere, but this can cripple the Separatists and the Sith in one blow.”

Quinlan's breath is rough and frustrated. “He’s got _Ventress_ with him,” he says. “You're not going to be able to take on Dooku and Ventress at the same time, even if your boyfriend is good with a blaster.”

“I have it on decent authority,” Shaak says mildly, “that his fellow commanders are very good, too.”

Stiffening, Quinlan jerks around, gaze sweeping the alley. From his place leaning against the wall, Blitz offers a sarcastic salute, and up on the rooftop Havoc waves.

“You're hiding them,” Quinlan says after a moment, turning his frown on Shaak. “How?”

“The same way I kept you from noticing me,” Shaak says, and smiles at him, entirely amused. “Did you think I was elected to the Council just for my diplomatic skills, Quinlan?”

Quinlan's smile is rueful. “Master Tholme always did like you best out of the High Council,” he says. “And you're in luck. Ventress was just heading back down to him, but she’s distractible. I’ll get her out of the way and leave you Dooku.”

The fact that Dooku is currently on Nar Shaddaa is an unlooked-for blessing, and Shaak smiles, pleased. “Good,” she says. “But be careful, Quinlan. Aayla will be most displeased if you get yourself hurt where she can't reach you.”

“Aayla’s hardly one to throw stones,” Quinlan retorts. “Four levels down, there’s a mansion, or whatever passes for it here. Dooku's there, negotiating with the Hutts. Right off the big square.”

Shaak knows it, and she inclines her head. “One hour,” she says, and Quinlan nods curtly, then turns and keeps moving, vanishing into the press of bodies on the street at the far end of the alley.

There's a long moment of silence, and then Colt says, “You didn’t mention he was a double agent.”

Shaak hums. “I wonder, sometimes,” she says, but doesn’t dwell. Quinlan walks the edges of the shadows, just as Mace does. It will make him stronger, in the end, and she has faith he’ll find his path eventually. That doesn’t mean his feet will always be steady on it, though.

Colt's breath is strained. “Great,” he mutters, hand tightening faintly on her hip. Then, abruptly, he seems to realize what he just did and lets go quickly, taking a half-step back. “Sorry, sir.”

“If I don’t need to apologize for enjoying the kiss, you certainly needn’t apologize for touching me in ways I like,” Shaak tells him, amused, and Colt swallows visibly. His gaze flickers over her mouth, then down, and he has to close his eyes for a moment.

Shaak can see the images in his mind, the wants where the connection lingers between them. It makes her smile, and she leans in, lays another careful kiss against his mouth. “Thoughts to be explored after our mission,” she offers, soft.

Colt's hand curves around her lek, shocking silver-bright pleasure through her, and he kisses the sound she makes off her lips. “Means you’d better win, General,” he says, rough, when he pulls away, but Shaak can read in his eyes what he actually wants to say.

Gentle, deliberate, she rests her forehead against his, and says, “We will.”

There aren’t any other options at this point. Just victory, and with so much on the line, Shaak refuses to accept anything else.

“General!” Kix says, more than a little frazzled as he rounds the corner. “Are you okay?”

“We’re getting there,” Anakin say, maybe a little wryly, and offers him a crooked smile as he slides to his knees, already reaching for his kit.

“Speak for yourself, sir,” Fox mutters, eyes still closed. His nose has stopped bleeding, at least, and Anakin has to breathe out, remind himself that that’s what matters here. Not that he couldn’t stop this from happening, but that he saved Fox from anything worse.

Kix's exhale is relief and amusement in equal measure. “What scratched you, Commander?” he asks, pulling the bacta from him his pack. “Those look deep.”

Fox doesn’t answer, which means Anakin can guess. “Her,” he says tightly, nodding at Merili. “I guess she got to play with one of the _puppets_ after all.”

“Sir,” Thorn breathes, and Fox’s eyes snap open. He struggles to sit up, but Anakin doesn’t loosen his grip, keeps Fox leaning back against his chest, and after a few moments Fox collapses against him with a groan.

“Thorn,” he manages, reaching out, and Thorn reaches back, clasping wrists tightly. “Thought the wildlife got you.”

“Just a Torrent trooper, sir,” Thorn says. “Practically a shiny. Stunned us and left us for the general to find.”

“Rys too?” Fox demands, craning his head back, and Rys immediately kneels down on his other side, offering him a quick salute.

“Both of us,” he confirms. “Right in the chest-plates.”

Fox snorts, and hisses as Kix smears bacta over one of the scratches. “Both of you get deserve to get stuck liaising with the Senate Commandos for a month for that,” he threatens, and Thorn winces.

“I think it worked out for the better, though,” he points out, and Fox’s breath of agreement is rough but amused.

“You just don’t want to work with the Senate Guard,” he says, and then twitches, a sharp sound of pain escaping him as Anakin digs out the roots of the last few encoded suggestions, wicked, cunning little things designed to push Fox towards ruthlessness even when the law should grant mercy. With a grimace, Anakin fills his mind with the sensation of gentle touch, cool grass, warm sun, and tries not to feel sick at the ruin that’s still left to be dealt with. Fox is going to need a hell of a lot of time with the Mind Healers, and probably a vacation on top of that.

Padmé had a trip back to Naboo planned for them at some point, and…it’s not often that Anakin gets to be alone with his wife, but maybe he can suggest dragging Fox along with them. After this, he’s going to need it _desperately_ , and he did just save Anakin from a Sith prophet.

“These aren’t healing,” Kix says, grim. “General, you're _sure_ it was her? She looks Human, but…”

“She was a Sith,” Anakin says grimly. There's no telling _what_ she did to herself, or put on her nails, or anything else. He’s not a Force Healer, isn't anything close, but he tips Fox’s head back so he can see the scratches. Three of them, slanting down across his face from right to left and only just missing his eyes, and they feel—Dark. Like there are threads of shadow twisted into the wounds. Anakin can probably pull them out, but—

“I can make it so they’ll heal, but they’ll scar,” he tells Fox. “Or you can wait for a real Healer.”

Fox lets out a breath, closes his eyes. “Do it,” he says, and one corner of his mouth curves, just faintly. “Cody's always playing up his scar, I might as well do the same, right?”

Anakin snorts. “I've heard him tell shinies _so many_ stories about how he got that scar,” he says. “I bet it happened when he fell in the shower or something.”

“Ask Shank and find out,” Kix says with a roll of his eyes. Anakin grimaces, and meets Fox’s disbelieving stare with complete agreement.

“I think I’d rather kiss a Wookie,” he says, and Fox nods.

“An _insane_ Wookie,” he confirms.

“Cowards,” Kix says mildly, and glances at Anakin. “Whenever you're ready, General.”

Anakin carefully splays a hand over Fox’s face. “Sorry about this, Commander,” he murmurs, and narrows his eyes, trying to work the little threads of Darkness free. They're stubborn, clinging, and each one coming loose makes Fox twitch and hiss. Anakin can _feel_ his pain.

He hates Merili, in that moment. Hates her so much he wishes she was alive so he could kill her again, and—

With a shock like cold water, Anakin remembers Padmé on the ground, terrified. Terrified of _him_ , and he has to swallow, has to take a breath and crush those thoughts, that Darkness in himself.

It’s not going to happen. He won't _let_ it happen. And if that takes reminding himself a hundred thousand times to be a better person, a good Jedi, that’s fine. He can do that.

With all three Guards around him, clear victims of the Sith, Anakin doesn’t know how he could do anything else.

“Sorry, Fox,” he whispers, and draws the last clinging power free. Fox’s groan is ragged, and he turns his face away like he’s trying to hide the pain there. Anakin understands the impulse; he _hates_ when people see him in pain. But—

Carefully, he loops his arms around Fox, curls them there. Lets Fox bury his face in the bend of his arm, hiding from the rest of the world even if he can't hide from Anakin, and says, “You saved my life, Commander. Don’t think I'm about to forget that.”

“I wanted her dead for me, too,” Fox mutters, but he wraps a hand around Anakin's bicep and breathes carefully for a moment.

Anakin doesn’t point out that he didn’t break free of Merili’s hold until he saw Anakin in danger. Doesn’t push, doesn’t argue, just lets him hide for a moment. When Kix silently offers up the tub of bacta, Anakin takes it, and starts applying the gel himself.

Fox doesn’t even try to protest.

“Any chance you can remember where the Sith Lord’s ship is?” Anakin asks, quiet, and Fox makes a sound of agreement.

“Near where he was meeting Lord Jedgar,” he says. “Two levels up, on the south side.”

Right. Because of course it wouldn’t be that easy, Anakin thinks grimly. They're going to have to walk right past Palpatine, who’s the Sith Lord. Anakin isn't going to get any sort of chance to hide from this.

“Jek and Thire will be there, too,” Thorn says quietly. “They're guarding the Chancellor personally.”

Kix rocks back sharply, like he was just struck. “The _Chancellor_?” he demands. “Like—the _Supreme_ Chancellor?”

“The Sith Lord,” Anakin says grimly. “He betrayed the Republic. He’s not the Chancellor anymore.”

Kix's glance at him is full of worry, but he nods, swallows. “All right,” he says, only a little unsteady. “We need to get past him, and get Jek and Thire. Maybe Fox can call them away?”

“I’ll do it,” Thorn says immediately. “If it’s the commander, they’ll want to know what happened to Lady Merili—”

“No,” Fox rasps, and slowly, carefully forces himself to sit up. Anakin lets him, if unhappily, and eyes the slump of his shoulders, the curve of his back, with something close to trepidation. “I’ll do it. Palpatine won't care, as long as we don’t interrupt him. I’ll say I heard something and need to investigate.”

Standard protocol would be to leave one of the guards with Palpatine, and take the other. Hopefully, they’ll be too far below Palpatine’s notice for him to care. Anakin breathes out, then nods, and says, “Get them around a corner and we can knock them out. I won't have time to undo the Force control, but I can keep them unconscious until we get away.” And by that time, hopefully, they’ll have found Master Windu and the others, and Mace can help him.

“Yes, sir.” Fox’s nod is curt, but when Anakin rises and offers him a hand, he takes it gratefully, lets Anakin pull him to his feet. Sways there, for a moment, and then catches his breath, pressing a hand to his head. “Kriff.”

“It’s going to feel like your head got hollowed out for a while,” Anakin says, an apology even if he doesn't put it in precisely those terms. “At least until we get you to the Mind Healers. I can take things out, but I don’t know how to fill in the gaps.”

Fox closes his eyes, but nods. Anakin can feel him summon up the sensations Anakin gave him, cool grass and warm sun, and it makes something turn over in his chest. He _helped_. Even in some small way, he managed to help.

“I feel better, sir,” he says. “Thank you.” Looks up, meeting Anakin's eyes and holding them, and says, “Really. Thank you for rescuing us.”

“We haven’t rescued you yet,” Anakin says. “But we’re getting there. Besides, I promised to introduce you to Padmé, didn’t I?”

Fox’s smile is small and a little crooked. “I’ll hold you to it, sir,” he returns, and looks around. Pauses, and then grimaces, running a hand over his hair. It’s slightly too long to be regulation, Anakin thinks. In the top commander of the Coruscant Guard, that’s…interesting, when it comes to his personality. “I have no idea what happened to my bucket,” he says after a moment.

Fox is so rarely without his helmet that Palpatine will _definitely_ notice a change there, Anakin thinks, frowning. He raises a hand, narrowing his eyes, and—

From a landing halfway up, something bounces, skids. A moment later Fox’s helmet topples over the edge and drops straight towards him, and Fox catches it with a sound of relief. Careful of the scratches, he pulls it on, then nods to Anakin and says, “Ready when you are, sir.”

Anakin caps the bacta and hands it back to Kix, entirely sure that they're going to need it again all too soon. Glances up—

“Hang on, Commander,” he says, and reaches out, smearing away the lipstick mark imprinted on the cheek of Fox’s helmet. Rubs it off until no trace of any color but the Guard’s crimson remains, and then gives Fox a grin. “Pink’s not really your color. I'm sure Padmé would say the same thing.”

Fox’s huff is tiredly amused, even over the speakers. “Appreciated, sir,” he says, and presses his fingers over the spot where the mark was. Anakin doesn’t think he’s imagining the shiver that runs thought Fox, the flicker of horror that’s instantly buried behind duty, but despite it, Fox squares his shoulders, straightens his spine, and looks up the wide, sweeping staircase. Takes a breath, then says, “All right, General. Follow me.”


	35. Chapter 35

“Have you seen Depa, by any chance?” Obi-Wan asks distractedly, most of his attention on the forms he’s attempting to fill out. “Commander Grey was looking for her, but she’s not answering her comm.”

Rex blinks, lifting his head from where he’s more focused on catching glimpses of Obi-Wan’s long fingers than doing his own work, and tries to remember the last time he saw her. “General Billaba? She and Commander Dume were going over scans in the hangar last night, I think. They sparred with me and Echo for a bit, but they left around midnight.”

“Echo.” Obi-Wan pauses, frowning, clearly trying to put a trooper to the name. “A shiny?”

“Not quite, anymore,” Rex allows, and—Torrent isn't even Obi-Wan’s company. There's no reason for him to remember all the members of it, but it still makes something in Rex’s chest curl warm and soft that he does. “He’s one of the Rishi Station survivors. The other one, Fives, was with the general.”

“Oh,” Obi-Wan says, grim, and Rex can see his hands curl like he wants to fist them. Doesn’t, but—it’s a near thing. “Anakin will keep him safe. And Mace will, too.”

They’ll certainly try. The odds aren’t exactly in Fives's favor, though, and unease curls in Rex's gut. It’s been a constant companion these last few days, but—harsher now, when he’s sitting still, with thoughts of Echo’s desperately contained worry so close. When he’s not _doing_ anything, and Fives, Kix, and Cody are stranded somewhere in Sith space. The generals being there is bad enough, but—

“I know they’ll protect the generals,” Rex says, quiet, and it’s more honest than he ever intended to be, “but who’s going to keep _them_ safe, if the generals get hurt?”

Obi-Wan is watching him, steady and full of—something. Faith, maybe. Rex can see it in his eyes, can feel the force of it like a touch against his skin. Care, maybe. Obi-Wan has never stopped caring, cares so desperately and deeply that Rex has thought more than once that he’s going to hurt himself with it. When he reaches out across the corner of the table, curls his hand over the back of Rex's wrist, the touch is silent reassurance, edged with an unwavering certainty that there will be an end to the struggles, and Rex has to swallow hard.

On Kamino, everyone told stories about the Jedi, wild, improbable things gleaned from Archive data and the trainers and the scientists and mashed into shape. But none of the stories ever had anything at all on Jedi like Obi-Wan Kenobi. Not a _one_.

“We’ll find them,” Obi-Wan says. “Have heart, Captain. Mace and Anakin are two of the kindest men I know. They won't let anything happen to Kix and Fives and Cody.”

Rex looks at him, takes a breath. There’s a curl of red-gold hair sliding down across Obi-Wan’s forehead again, and his eyes are steady, fixed on Rex in a way that makes something settle, pleasantly heavy, in Rex's chest. He could—

A sharply cleared throat shatters that train of thought, and Rex twitches hard. Obi-Wan jerks his hand back, half-rising, and turns sharply to face the clone standing behind them.

“Commander Neyo,” he says, sounding torn between relief and chagrin. “Was there something you needed?”

Rex, however, has settled firmly on annoyance, as far as reactions go, and he eyes Neyo narrowly as he rises to his feet. Gets eyed right back, because as easygoing as Ponds is, Neyo _isn't_. They decanted him early or something, Rex is sure; _bastard_ is the only part of his personality that had a chance to develop.

“Transmission from Coruscant,” Neyo says coolly, and turns his attention to Obi-Wan, dismissing Rex completely. “The Senate’s PR office marked it urgent.” There's the faintest twitch to his mouth. “Seven times, unless I miscounted.”

Obi-Wan groans, but takes the offered datapad. “Seven times? And it’s not even Anakin's fault this time. What could have gotten them so bent out of shape?”

“No idea, sir,” Neyo says. As soon as he’s passed over the pad, he falls back into parade rest, and Rex—

Rex doesn’t trust that _at all_. Neyo’s looking far too happy for any sort of good to come of this. He narrows his eyes at the commander, but Neyo ignores him completely, gaze fixed on Obi-Wan.

“Ah, a new story just hit the holonet,” Obi-Wan murmurs, and flips to the next page. “Lots of _control the spin_ and all that. But I don’t know why they'd bother alerting…us…” He trails off, and Rex watches his eyes widen with a sinking feeling.

“Sir?” he asks, resigned.

It takes Obi-Wan a very, very long moment to answer. He stares down at the pad as though he can't quite believe his eyes, and then slowly, slowly raises his head. Looks right at Rex, and says, in a very odd tone of voice, “Rex. Is there anything you want to tell me?”

There are several things, but not one of them is appropriate to say with Neyo standing four paces away. “Sir?” Rex asks warily.

“Or rather,” Obi-Wan says, perfectly polite in a way that has _teeth_ , “do you think there’s anything _Cody_ would want to tell me?”

Oh.

Rex clears his throat, ignoring the way Neyo is suddenly staring at him. “I couldn’t say, sir,” he offers carefully. “Since I'm not Cody.”

“No,” Obi-Wan agrees amiably, “you aren’t. Which is why I'm going to assume you didn’t get married to one of my friends, and then proceed to _not tell me_. Or,” and his voice cracks with indignation, “ _even bother to invite me to the wedding_.”

Rex winces. Now is probably not a good time to mention that _he_ was at the wedding. “He was planning on telling you,” he says, mostly certain of that. Kind of. “But, uh.”

“You're not surprised,” Obi-Wan observes, and folds his arms across his chest. “Rex. Exactly _how long_ have Mace and Cody been…involved?”

There's no good way to answer that. _I only found out they were involved when Cody sprang the wedding on me_ will just raise more concerns, but anything that tries to guess at a timeline will only make Obi-Wan think Rex _knew_ , and he most definitely didn’t. With a grimace, he offers, “I only found out recently, sir. I couldn’t say. But…Ponds thought it was a while.”

Throwing Ponds under the speeder comes with a flicker of regret, but—not much. Ponds doesn’t have to serve almost every mission with Obi-Wan, and Rex _does_. And besides that, Rex would probably throw _himself_ in front of a speeder to keep Obi-Wan from looking sad. Ponds is a small sacrifice, in comparison.

Instead of looking sad, though, Obi-Wan closes his eyes like he’s praying for patience. “Well,” he says. “Regardless, it was more than long enough for rumors to reach _Dooku_.”

Oh. Oh _no_.

“You said something hit the holonet, sir?” Rex asks, resigned, and when Obi-Wan thrusts the pad at him, he takes it gingerly. Turns it around, expecting accusations of abuse from the Seps, or Dooku decrying the Jedi for heresy, or—

He drops the pad.

A hand gesture from Obi-Wan catches it before it can hit the deck, and Obi-Wan sighs, the curve of his mouth rueful. “Congratulations on your citizenship, Captain, Commander,” he says, but Rex is still too tangled up in the image of the headline to even register the words. _GAR_ _Clones Granted Freedom Through Marriage Clause_ , it reads, in very large, obnoxious letters, and—

Rex can't quite breathe.

“Citizenship?” he repeats dumbly, unable to quite believe it. “Through _Cody's marriage_?”

Obi-Wan reclaims the pad, skimming it. “Yes,” he says. “It’s certainly legal, if…archaic, if I'm remembering the age of that particular part of the Charter correctly. Dooku must have figured it out once he caught wind of Mace getting married.” His mouth curves into a thoughtful frown, and he rubs at his beard. “Well, if he’s trying to sow chaos, this is certainly a good way to do it.”

“ _Citizenship_ ,” Rex repeats, still stalled on that point.

The tone finally seems to register for Obi-Wan, and he looks up, meeting Rex's gaze. A small smile crosses his face, and he sets the pad on the table, takes two steps and catches Rex's hand. “Yes,” he says, soft. “Cody received citizenship by marrying Mace, and through this clause, it applies to all close relatives. And, under Mandalorian law, you're all kin. So all clones are now citizens of the Republic.”

 _I think I need to sit down_ , Rex wants to say. Can't quite manage the words, but—he swallows hard, glances over at Neyo. Neyo is frowning, though it doesn’t seem like he’s nearly as shocked as Rex feels.

“That’s a lot of weight for one clause,” Neyo says after a moment, suspicious. “It’s legal?”

Obi-Wan grimaces faintly. “The Order’s Charter is fifteen volumes, each containing thousands of pages,” he says. “Even the Order’s best legal scholars tend to stick with more…relevant sections. I've never heard of this particular clause, but I know the book it’s from, and I'm entirely sure it’s real. Dooku wouldn’t spread baseless propaganda. Not when someone could easily prove it wrong.”

“And this is on the _holonet_ ,” Rex says, glancing at the pad again. “All the clones are just…citizens? Like that?”

Obi-Wan’s expression softens into a smile. “Yes,” he says firmly. “Precisely, Captain. It’s well overdue, but—of all of Dooku's plans, I have to say. I believe I like this one the best.” He pauses, expression twisting, and then sighs dramatically. “Well. Barring the fact that _my commander_ got married without even _informing_ me. And to one of my friends, no less. This betrayal will not stand.”

“Betrayal,” Rex repeats, amused.

“A secret wedding between the Marshal Commander and the Master of the Order, carried out in the dead of night as the product of a forbidden romance?” Obi-Wan waves a hand that manages to convey dignified disdain. “It’s all so… melodramatic. _Lurid_.”

Trying to apply either of those two words to _Cody_ and _Mace Windu_ makes Rex's eyes cross a little. “Given Cody's rank,” he offers, “I don’t think there was anything _forbidden_ about it, honestly—”

“It’s the _principle_ of the thing,” Obi-Wan says, offended, which makes no sense whatsoever. Then, suddenly, he stops short, and a flicker of dismay crosses his face. “Depa,” he says. “Surely Mace would have told _her_. _I_ certainly don’t want to have to be the one to do it.”

She wasn’t at the wedding, so Rex can't say. But…still. It’s probably better to make sure she knows, rather than letting her potentially find out from scuttlebutt. “Commander?” he asks, more than happy to take this conversation down a new track. “Do you know where General Billaba is?”

Neyo frowns. “I saw Commander Dume earlier this morning,” he says. “Down by the hangar. But I haven’t seen the general since yesterday. Grey was looking for her earlier, too.”

Rex looks over at Obi-Wan, finds him looking back. there’s a distinct sinking feeling in his stomach, and he asks, “Sir?”

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Obi-Wan says, resigned. “Search the ship. If she’s aboard, we need to find her.”

Rex doesn’t ask where she could have gone if she’s _not_ aboard. With Jedi, it’s always better to leave things like that a mystery.

Tup looks small in the bed, even without the glaring whiteness of the medical bay. They shaved his hair, all except the new braid behind his ear, and Dogma can hardly look at him like this. _Knowing_ what almost happened is—terrifying.

“He will be fine, Dogma,” General Kolar says quietly, and a hand curls over Dogma’s shoulder, tightens just enough to be a comfort. Automatically, just as he would with another clone, Dogma puts his hand up to cover General Kolar’s, and—

It’s different. General Kolar has longer, slimmer fingers than a clone, his skin a warm black instead of brown. But the grounding warmth of the touch is still the same, and Dogma lets it linger for a long moment before propriety hits him again and he pulls his hand away.

“It was _degrading_ ,” he says, and the words crack in his throat. “If—if someone hadn’t gotten that chip out of him, it could have _killed_ him.”

“Yes,” General Kolar acknowledges, severe. “But it was removed in time. Tup will suffer no ill effects.”

Something to be grateful for. Especially with General Ti off on a mission. Dogma swallows, nods, and forces himself to stand up. It will still be hours before Tup wakes up again, and he can't sit here the whole time. “Sorry, sir,” he manages. “I just…”

“Tup is your friend,” Kolar says, watching him with dark, steady eyes. “Your care for him is admirable. If you wish to stay with him, that will be fine.”

Which means that Kolar has something to do elsewhere. Dogma hesitates, but—

General Ti’s quarters are safe, and no one knows Tup is here. Kolar made a point of registering him in one of the medical bays before he carried him away in secret. And—after hearing about the chips, Dogma can't say it’s overcautious of him.

“I’ll stay with you, sir,” he says. “If that’s all right.” He’s Kolar’s commander now, even if the whole promotion was ridiculous, and…he should probably start to act like it. Somehow. Despite having no idea how a commander is supposed to act.

It’s hard to read Kolar's expression, but Dogma thinks he looks pleased. “Bring a blaster,” is all he says. “Colt left one in his room.”

That’s rather less than comforting, but Dogma swallows, nods, and goes to retrieve it. It’s not one of the well-used training weapons, either, but a real blaster, carefully maintained and clearly from the armory. There's a set of vibroblades, too, with three missing, and Dogma hesitates for a long moment before he picks up the remaining pair. Holds them for a moment, trying to figure out where to stick them without his armor, and—

“Here,” Kolar says, quiet, and Dogma twitches at the sound of steps. Turns, and Kolar is already reaching out. He catches Dogma's wrist, light, and pulls his own sleeve up. There's a holster strapped to his arm, beneath the tight sleeve of his undertunic, and he undoes it deftly. Holds it out, and Dogma swallows, but tentatively offers up his own arm. With a nod of thanks, Kolar leans over it, carefully wrapping the straps around Dogma's forearm.

The brush of his long hair makes Dogma think of Tup, his skull shaved. _Chipped_ , just because someone wants to use them. He has to swallow carefully, angry but unsure how to manage it.

“Wrist sheathes are less practical, and more easily discovered,” Kolar says. “I will requisition you your own set of armor and casual clothes with appropriate concealment places.”

“I—I didn’t think even commanders were out of armor often,” Dogma says warily.

Kolar grunts. “I travel frequently, and often work alone. As my commander, you will accompany me to places where armor won't be appropriate.”

Dogma swallows, considering this. He’d been planning—but. The general has to come first. “Am I still allowed to get tattoos?” he asks warily. “I was—on my face—”

With a quiet snort, Kolar glances up, and the light catches on the dotted lines of his own tattoos, curling over the arch of his cheekbones, the bridge of his nose, down his chin and up the largest pair of his horns. “A Zabrak’s tattoos are much like a clone’s,” he says. “Individual, with personal meaning. Whatever tattoo you would like, get it. I have no objections, and no right to them even if I did. You are your own person.”

A cog, Dogma wants to say. Part of a whole, but meaningless alone. If everyone follows orders, obeys the generals, the machine works, and they’ll win the war. But—

Kolar is still watching him with dark eyes, and it’s startling, after all of Dogma's frustrations with him, to suddenly, vividly remember that Agen Kolar is a member of the High Council, has been serving on it for years. It’s easy to see General Ti as a High Council member, because she’s wise and steady and serene, but Kolar…isn't. Not in the same way.

Bewildering, then, to see that same wisdom in his gaze as he fastens the last strap around Dogma's arm and steps back.

“Shaak likes to say that Jedi are like clones,” Kolar says quietly. “In that for both of us, the individual and the group are one and the same. And it’s true. But it is my belief, too, that the group is the same as the individual. One does not function without the other. If a group is simply the same piece, repeating, there is little worth to it besides numbers. Each individual adds structure, form. No one piece is any less valuable than the others, because without any one of them, the group is lesser. It is unity, and our belief in that form, that gives us strength.” He meets Dogma's eyes, and says, “That is why the Republic still stands, although we are outnumbered. Every clone and every Jedi is worth a thousand battle droids. They have only numbers. We have something that matters more.”

Dogma's throat is tight, and he looks away, looks down. The sheath on his arm is worn leather, still warm from Kolar's skin, and there are carefully etched images in the leathers. Curling vines, leaves, flowers that Dogma can't recognize. It looks…not mass-produced. Special, like someone made it for Kolar himself, and he’s carried it every day since.

“It was a gift from my Master, when I was Knighted,” Kolar says, as though he can sense the direction of Dogma's thoughts. “She is a Neti, so she decorated it with the plants of my homeworld.”

“Dathomir?” Dogma guesses.

Kolar's mouth tightens. “Male Zabraks do not fare well on Dathomir,” he says, resigned more than bitter. “No, I am from Iridonia.” After a moment, his expression lightens, and he says, “Jedi do not have possessions. But—I carry more weapons than most Jedi, and Master T'ra thought it would be a good choice for me.”

Dogma swallows, running his thumb over the sheath. “I can't—it’s _yours_ ,” he says. Clones don’t have possessions, either, and he _knows_ what something like this must mean, in light of that. “I can't take it, even for a day—”

Kolar shakes his head, then takes one of the vibroblades, pressing the hilt into Dogma's hand. “A congratulations,” he says, smiling faintly, “on your promotion, Commander Dogma.”

Dogma flushes, groans. “I _can't_ be a commander,” he says. “Your—what will your battalion say? I'm just a cadet!”

“I don’t have a battalion,” Kolar says. “Just you.”

Oh. Well. Some of the tension eases out of Dogma's shoulders. That’s…not quite as bad as he had feared.

With a quiet snort, Kolar turns, picking up his robes and pulling them over his shoulders. “AZI-3 is coming to watch Tup,” he says. “We’re needed at the landing platform.”

Just knowing that Tup won't be left alone makes it easier to nod and say, “Yes, sir.” Dogma follows Kolar out, watching the room seal behind them, and takes a breath. Feels the weight of the sheath beneath his training uniform, the strangeness of carrying a blaster when out of armor. But—

It feels better, a little. Like Kolar answered a question Dogma didn’t even know to ask. Like he can hold his head up a little higher as he follows the general— _his_ general—down the halls and out into Kamino’s near-constant rain. The landing platform is otherwise deserted, but Kolar lifts his head towards the clouds as if he knows exactly where to look. As if he doesn’t notice the rain, either, even though it’s already soaking his robes and dripping down his hair.

“Is it General Ti?” Dogma asks, a little warily. He isn't entirely sure why he needs to be armed on Kamino, but—the general has been right so far, so he’s not going to argue.

“No,” Kolar says shortly, and lifts a hand, pointing towards a section of clouds above the ocean. “Master Gallia.”

As if on cue, a sleek starfighter dips through the storm, all but skimming the surface of the water as it makes its approach. Behind it comes another, then another, a whole wing dipping down through the clouds and heading straight for them. The one in lead has the insignia of the Jedi Order on the nose, and as it slows and comes in for a landing, Dogma catches glimpses of nose art on the other fighters as well. A clone squadron, following the general, and that seems—serious.

Kolar hardly waits for the fighters to settle before he’s moving forward, raising a hand against the rain. As he does, the Jedi's fighter opens, and she vaults out, a black Tholothian woman with a stern expression. It lightens faintly at the sight of Kolar, and she reaches out, clasping wrists with him. Kolar leans in, and she does too, and they butt heads gently in a motion that’s _almost_ like clones greeting each other, but decidedly more…Zabrak, Dogma decides.

“Agen,” the other general says. “I wasn’t sure you’d hear. Where’s Shaak?”

“Called away on an urgent matter,” Kolar answers, and frowns as he looks her over. “Adi. You're injured.”

“Healing,” she says dismissively, and turns to look at the clone approaching her. “Agen, this is Commander Odd Ball. Odd Ball, my fellow Council member, Agen Kolar.”

“Honor to meet you, General,” Odd Ball offers, saluting. His gaze flickers to Dogma, curious, and Agen blinks, then waves him forward.

“My commander,” he says. “Dogma.”

Even though Dogma's braced for laughter, Odd Ball takes it in stride. He nods to Dogma too, respectful, like they're equals, and then says, “Want us on the ground, General Gallia?”

Gallia glances at Agen, who looks back, and there's a moment of silent communication between them. “Yes,” she says. “All the men. Agen?”

The slant of Agen's mouth is grim. “The files?” he asks.

Gallia’s expression twists. “Those chips are meant for us,” she says. “To make the men think we’re traitors, and then execute us.”

Something dark and cold washes through Dogma's veins. Not able to help himself, he looks at Odd Ball, who still has his helmet on but doesn’t so much as twitch at the revelation. He already knows, then.

“That was Commander Colt's assumption,” Agen agrees. He glances back at the facilities, then says, “Kamino has a Senator now.”

“They're a Republic world, bought and paid for,” Gallia agrees, flat. She cocks her head, studying Agen, and asks, “You have a plan?”

Agen's smile is more a baring of teeth than anything. “You're the senior Council member,” he says. “But Dooku is the reason the chips were implanted.”

Gallia’s lips compress into a thin, furious line for half an instant before she controls herself, breathes out. She tilts her chin up, white tendrils shifting over her shoulders, and nods sharply. “If the scientists here were knowingly consorting with the Separatist leadership, we have full authority to seize control of the facilities,” she says, and it’s the calm of an ocean with the tide rolling in, ready to bury the shoreline. She waves, and there’s an organized rush as clone troopers leap down from their fighters and fall in. “Master Kolar, Commander Dogma. Lead the way. Nala Se and I have business.”

The staircase ends in a hallway of polished black stone and blood-red light, draped with banners bearing the Sith Emperor’s seal. It’s eerie, hushed, and the whole place reeks of the Dark Side.

“Anyone else getting serious bad vibes?” Fives mutters, and this is the wariest Mace has seen him since they crashed, practically twitchy as he turns to take in the wide hall. “Like, worse than just Sith-planet-in-general vibes. I feel like a vornskr is standing right behind me.”

“Vornskrs are likely to be the least alarming thing in this building,” Mace says dryly. “But yes. You feel the Dark Side. Millenia of it has seeped into the building, and there is too much of a miasma here to ever fully fade.”

“The one time I was hoping it would be my imagination,” Fives says, resigned. “If anyone sees a blaster or a big pointy stick, let me know.”

Fives, Mace thinks with amusement, will do well with a lightsaber. Something to look forward to, at the end of his inevitable fight with the Council over taking a padawan who wasn’t raised in the Temple. “Be careful of touching anything,” he warns Fives. “Cody's sword, and many other Sith artifacts, will devour Jedi from the inside out.”

Fives pales. “Touching bad, got it. I retract my request.”

Cody snorts, but looks over at Shmi, and the run of his thoughts is all quick calculation, carefully assessing. “Still the right way?” he asks.

Shmi nods. “Ani’s above us,” she says, and points to a set of stairs leading off the main hall. They twist sharply, rising at a steep slant towards the next floor, and she makes for them with hesitation.

Without even having to look at Mace, Cody catches her elbow. “Sorry,” he says quietly. “Let one of us go first for now.”

Shmi's grip tightens on the lantern, but she nods and lets Cody and Mace both pass her to start up the stairs. With the warblade in one hand, Cody takes the lead, and Mace stays half a pace behind him, senses as open as he dares.

 _Feel anything?_ Cody asks silently, grimly.

 _The Darkness clouds everything here,_ Mace returns, and shares an instant of his impression of the citadel, all heavy weight and writhing shadows. It’s far worse than Coruscant has ever been, far worse than anywhere else on this planet so far. If they stay here too long, it feels like Mace is going to suffocate in it.

Almost like the motion is automatic, instinctive, Cody reaches back with his free hand, and—

Well. Mace carefully contains the curl of emotion that curls through his chest, as warm as sun-touched stone at the end of the day. It feels like the Temple, like home, and Mace curls his fingers into Cody's and tightens his grip.

“No suffocation,” Cody says firmly. “Save that for when my general’s strangling you for not inviting him to the wedding.”

Mace raises a brow at him. “Might I remind you, Cody, you _also_ had the chance to invite him to the wedding, and you didn’t.”

Cody winces. “Don’t remind me,” he says.

“I don’t want to know,” Fives says determinedly. “I'm not going to ask. That’s not an unnerving thing to jump to _at all_ , and I also take back what I said about your life being boring, Commander.”

With a roll of his eyes, Cody rounds the last spiral of steps and eyes both ends of the hall that runs past it. “Sure, shiny,” he says, unimpressed. “Shmi?”

“Left,” Shmi says, “And one level up.”

When Mace glances back, her eyes are trained in that direction, focused like she can see Anakin even through the floor. She’s frowning faintly, though, and after a moment she says, “I think he’s moving away from us.”

Towards the back of the building, probably. Wherever the hangar is, that’s doubtless where Anakin is headed. Mace inclines his head, and says grimly, “Towards one of the sources of the Darkness. We need to hurry.”

“Great,” Cody says grimly. “Guards?”

“If there are any, I can't tell,” Mace says, and from the look on Cody's face, he knows as well as Mace that that hardly means they don’t exist.

Cody's hand tightens briefly around his, then loosens, and he slips through Mace's fingers and takes a step ahead, shoulders squared. “All right,” he says. “Let’s go.”

Unease twists through Mace's stomach, and he looks at the line of Cody's back, the tilt of his head, for a very long moment before he picks up his pace and follows.

He’s had a bad feeling since they landed on this planet, and it’s just redoubled. Settles, heavier than the shadows around him, in his chest, and he almost wants to reach out and take Cody's hand again. But Cody's attention is fixed ahead of them, mind sharp, ready for the danger they're facing, and Mace breathes through the urge and follows him.


	36. Chapter 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fairly major cliffhanger warning for this chapter.

This, Anakin thinks, would _also_ be a really good time to be able to hide himself with the Force.

He can feel the vast, consuming, greedy edges of the Sith Lord’s power, laid like a shroud over the room, but doesn’t dare get any closer. Kix, Rys, and Thorn halted several paces back, where vast black columns provide cover, but Anakin walks right up to the corner with Fox. Pauses there, when Fox does, and he can feel the roil of Fox’s fear beneath the Dark power around them. Wants to reach out, but isn't sure how to, or if it will be welcome right now. Padmé doesn’t cling, when she’s worried; she doesn’t like being grabbed and held and all the other things Anakin usually feels like he needs, and Anakin knows that, respects it, but it doesn’t change his first instinct.

But Fox turns and looks at him, silent, and raises a hand.

Instantly, Anakin reaches out. He clasps Fox’s wrist, pulls him a half-step closer, and Fox is the one to lean in. Anakin bumps foreheads with him, hard enough to feel even through his helmet, and tightens his grip. Doesn’t say anything, _can't_ , but—

Through the helmet, he can see Fox close his eyes, just for a moment. Through the press of their foreheads he can feel the breath he takes.

In the Force, he feels like fear and determination in equal measure, edged with bloody rage, and Anakin breathes with him for long, strung-out seconds before Fox finally pulls away and lets go.

 _Good luck_ , Anakin thinks, not sure if Fox will hear it, but he likes to think he sees the line of Fox’s shoulders ease for just a moment.

Then, raising his chin, Fox starts moving. He stalks around the corner, the exact stride he uses in the Senate Building, perfectly controlled and confident, and disappears. Anakin presses himself up against the wall, listening to the sound of his footsteps change. From a hall to a vast room, and the echo gains a metallic edge.

“Jek, Thire,” Fox barks. “With me.”

And then, low and unmistakable, there’s a quiet, amused sound Anakin has heard a hundred times before. “Commander,” Palpatine says, and there's no way that _isn't_ his voice. “A problem?”

“I heard something, my lord,” Fox says, bland as he was on the citadel steps. “Lady Merili told me to bring reinforcements.”

There's a long, long moment of silence. Anakin freezes, practically holding his breath, and closes his eyes, trying to sense anything. All he can feel is darkness, though, and he frowns, reaches—

“Ah,” Palpatine says, soft. “That was a lie. You shouldn’t be able to do that, Commander.”

Fox chokes, sudden and desperate, and Anakin hears his boots scrape the floor, kick. Like he was just lifted by the throat, he thinks, and anger surges, hot and sharp in his chest. He grabs his lightsaber from his belt, flashes a signal to Kix and the others, and runs.

Even with all the evidence, with all the glimpses in the troopers’ minds, it’s still a shock like a bucket of cold water to round the corner and see Palpatine in a long hooded robe, hand raised, as Fox chokes and struggles in the air in front of him. For one brief instant, Anakin falters, and he doesn’t immediately lunge.

It’s an instant too long. Palpatine turns, going still, and Anakin can feel the dark-sharp blade of his surprise slicing across his mind.

“Lord Jedgar,” Palpatine says to the tall, bearded man standing across from him. “What is this? You bring Jedi to our meeting?”

Jedgar smiles thinly. “No,” he says. “The only Jedi here has been dealt with. I brought you a Sith apprentice, ready to fall. All he needs is one more push.”

“Slag-chucking _Sithspit_ ,” Ayo says as the last trace of red fades behind them, sounding stunned.

“Language,” Clip says without looking up from the instruments. “Everyone holding steady?”

Very, very carefully, Ponds uncurls his fingers from the edge of the chair and straightens. “Well-shaken,” he says with humor, even if it feels like he left his stomach somewhere back in the nebula. “Blowback?”

“AT-RTs are fine, sir,” Blowback answers. “Razor and I strapped them in tight. I think we should all chip in and get Clip and Ayo some more piloting lessons, though.”

Ayo makes a rude sound. “General Koon himself couldn’t have managed better,” he says, offended. “Go sit on a—”

“Ayo,” Ponds says patiently, and Ayo cuts himself off with a huff. Unbuckling his harness, Ponds rises to his feet, catching Razor’s eye, and the sergeant nods silently. He undoes his own, careful not to let the clips clang against the seat, and rises. In the seat beside him, Ahsoka gives him and then Ponds a wary look. Ponds touches a hand to his ear, then points at the hatch to the engines, and her eyes widen. She reaches for her own harness, and Ponds isn't about to argue with Jedi backup. Whatever was bouncing around the engine room during the crossing is likely just a bit of cargo that wasn’t strapped down correctly, but—

There's a chance it isn’t, too.

Another faint thump comes as they cross the deck, Razor taking the lead, and behind them Stak says, deliberately pitched to carry, “I don’t know, vod, that was more General Skywalker than General Koon.”

Clip snorts, watching Razor ease open the hatch. “We haven’t crashed _nearly_ enough ships to be like Skywalker,” he retorts.

“This whole trip kind of felt like one extended crash,” Brass says. “No offense.”

Ponds drops through the hatch, landing as silently as he can, and pulls a vibroblade from his boot. There's no way he’s going to use a blaster in the tight confines of the engine room, because that’s just asking for trouble. And—

Up ahead. Another faint scuff, quiet enough that he wouldn’t catch it if he weren’t listening for it.

Ahsoka lands next to him, and her narrowed eyes say she caught it, too. When Ponds glances over at her, she smiles, all teeth, and Ponds has to swallow a chuckle. Togruta are genetically predisposed to be hunters, and he appreciates it about them. When he flicks a signal at her, she nods readily and ducks sideways into a narrow corridor between the equipment, steps perfectly silent. Behind Ponds, Razor hits the decking, then straightens and nods, and Ponds starts forward, minding his feet carefully. There's another scuff, just around the corner of the main engine array, and Ponds tightens his grip on the knife, then ducks around it fast, ready to take their stowaways by surprise.

“Oh, Commander!” General Billaba says brightly, from where she’s seated on the ground with a thermos of what smells like Mace's favorite tea. “Care to join us?”

There's a thump, and a moment later Ahsoka ducks out of hiding. “Master Billaba?” she demands. “ _Caleb_?”

The commander gives her a slightly awkward wave. “Hi, Ahsoka,” he offers, and smiles sheepishly at Ponds. “Hi, Commander.”

Ponds looks from the general to her padawan, then over at Razor, who looks resigned but not overly surprised. Then again, Razor’s usually the one who works directly with Mace; he’s had plenty of experience with Jedi in general and Depa in particular.

“Grey is probably looking for you, sir,” he tells Depa, but slides his vibroblade back into his boot. “I'm pretty sure he didn’t pick his name in the hopes that that’s what color you’d turn his hair.”

Depa chuckles, lithely rising to her feet and straightening her robes. “Grey will be fine,” she says. “My master is the one I'm worried about. We’re through the nebula, I take it?”

“Yes, sir.” Ponds eyes her, and then says, “You could have asked.”

Depa hums, tilting her head. “Your pilot and medic seemed rather shifty about things as it was,” she says. “And beyond that, too much discussion might have given you away. If Obi-Wan had caught wind of it, he’d have wanted to come as well, and landing a quarter of the Council in Sith space is more of a headache than I’d care to deal with.”

It sounds perfectly reasonable, in the same way that Mace sounds perfectly reasonable when he’s justifying doing something that looks insane from the outside. Ponds pauses, holding Depa's gaze for a long, long moment, and then says, “You had a feeling, didn’t you.”

Despite the fact that it’s not a question, Depa laughs, and answers, “I did. You're going to need me. And Caleb refused to be left behind, so you get both of us.” She raises a brow at Ahsoka. “Or rather, all three of us. I assume Ahsoka wasn’t precisely a planned addition to your squadron.”

“I saw Razor stashing armor when I was looking for a ship to steal,” Ahsoka admits, smirking, and behind Ponds, Razor groans.

“Well,” he says, “at least Brass and Clip can't give me grief over that now. Seeing as they didn’t manage to do more than tip you off, General Billaba.”

“I try not to read minds,” Depa agrees serenely, “but when someone is shouting _don’t look at me_ , it’s rather hard to keep from looking at them.”

Ponds sighs and makes a mental note to sit Brass and Clip down and go over all the ways to hide their thoughts from a Force-user again. He _knows_ they learned on Kamino; apparently it’s time for a refresher course.

“Welcome aboard, then, General,” Ponds says, and offers Caleb a hand up. “You two didn’t get knocked around by the nebula too much, did you?”

“I think I bounced off the ceiling once,” Caleb admits, grinning.

Ponds chuckles, clapping him lightly on the shoulder. “I think that means a lot less for a Jedi than it would for anyone else,” he says, and Caleb shrugs.

“Do you know where Master Windu ended up?” he asks.

“Ayo’s trying to pick up a trail now,” Ponds assures him, and glances at Depa. “I know Commander Tano and General Skywalker have a bond, sir, but…”

“Mace and I have one as well,” Depa allows. She leads the way back towards the main deck, scaling the ladder and offering a cheerful, “Good morning, Lightning,” as she emerges.

There's a moment of complete silence, and just as Ponds emerges, Brass groans. “General,” he says, sounding entirely abashed. “That change of subject wasn’t enough, I take it.”

Depa chuckles, resting a hand on Caleb's head as he ducks closer to her. “Not quite,” she allows. “But it was impressively quick. Ayo, any chance you’ve found something?”

Ayo gives her a look, then eyes Ponds, who waves a hand in silent agreement. It’s not like they can turn around and drop her and Caleb off on the _Endurance_ , then try again. Besides, if she and Mace have a bond, she can help them find him.

“Not yet, sir,” he says after a moment. “I'm trying to track the signal from the ship General Skywalker commandeered—Broadside got a pretty good lock on it before he had to peel off. But there's a lot of space out here.”

“We’re tracking the ship that came through earlier, too,” Ponds says, watching as Ayo pulls up the only star map they could find of the space inside the Caldera. It’s centuries out of date, but given how long it’s been since anyone willingly came into the territory of the old Sith Empire, Ponds will take it. “Its signal was scrambled, but there shouldn’t be much broadcasting out here, so it should be easy enough to pick up.”

Depa makes a low, thoughtful sound and closes her eyes. Reaching out, she splays a hand above the star map, bandage-wrapped fingers spread. Looking interested, Caleb leans closer, but Depa just breathes in, breathes out, and then says, “This quadrant, here. Master Mace is somewhere in there.”

Ayo quickly brings the area into focus, enlarging it and starting to run a check of it. “That starts right beyond the nebula, where the general would have come out,” he says. “There shouldn’t be more than two or three systems…” He trails off, frowning. After a moment, he leans over to check his scanner, then glances back at the map, looking unsettled.

“Ayo?” Ponds asks, concerned.

Ayo jabs a finger at a section of space on the map, empty and featureless. “My instruments are picking up a whole system here,” he says. “A star and five planets. But it’s not showing up on the map.”

“Isn't that map from the Jedi Archives?” Caleb asks, flicking a glance from Ayo to Depa. “But it has all the other nearby systems on it, right?”

“There have been systems deleted from the Archive before,” Ahsoka says, grim. “But why would anyone care about deleting a _Sith_ planet?”

They deleted all the records of Kamino to hide Ponds and his brothers. To hide that they’d commissioned a whole army of clone troopers, ready to fight a war no one believed was coming. Cold prickles down Ponds’s spine and he takes a breath, meets Depa's eyes as she turns to look at him. Sees the understanding there, dark and resigned, and says what they're both thinking.

“To hide what’s on it.”

“But only a Jedi could do that,” Caleb protests.

“Yes,” Depa agrees quietly, and straightens. “Mace is there. I'm certain of it.”

Ponds would be sure of that, too, even without her saying as much. It’s not something that requires a sense of the Force, either; he just knows Jedi and their tendency to crash headlong into the biggest spot of trouble in any given situation. “Take us there,” he orders Clip, who immediately starts punching in hyperspace coordinates. “Ayo, keep an eye out for any trace of that cruiser, too.”

“Yes, sir,” Ayo murmurs, and Depa lets out a careful breath.

“Hurry,” she says softly. “Something is happening. Mace is in danger.”

Ponds shoots her a startled look, but she isn't watching him; her eyes are on the stars ahead of them, just blurring into streaks as they jump to hyperspace, and one of her hands is curled tightly around the back of Clip’s chair. It makes something hard and grim settle in Ponds’s chest, and he steps back, touching Ahsoka's shoulder when he catches her biting her lip.

“We’ll make it in time,” he tells her. “That’s what Lightning Squadron’s good at.”

Because Mace is their general. He’s saved all of them before, headed into battle beside them more times than Ponds can count. He cares, and he’s careful about it, and he’s the reason Lightning’s only lost a handful of men, no matter how many times they’ve hit first and hit hard.

Ponds takes a breath and goes to get his armor on. They’ve got work to do.

“General,” Colt says quietly.

On the steps of the mansion, Shaak pauses. She doesn’t look back, doesn’t look down at the pair of droids crumpled at her feet, still sparking. “Yes, Colt?” she asks.

Colt's breath is harsh, just faintly rueful. He doesn’t quite know what to say. _You're sure about this_ is too stupid to bear, and _be careful_ is impossible. Dooku's a Sith, powerful and ferocious and willing to kill, and no matter how good Shaak is, there’s always the chance that Dooku is better.

Out of the corner of his eye, Colt catches a shift, turns. There's a Mandalorian in full armor crossing the square, but they aren’t turning, aren’t looking anywhere, and after a moment Colt breathes out and lets if go. Nar Shaddaa has a lot of Mandalorians looking for work or picking up bounties, after all.

“Just—don’t let him take you by surprise,” he says. “Dooku.”

Finally, finally, Shaak turns to look at him, and her expression is almost jarringly serene, perfectly steady. She smiles at him, and Colt tries not to think about how her mouth feels under his, or the way her body feels pressed up against his own. Tries not to think how her smile looks from so close, or the way her mind feels curled around her own. And—she touches his mind again, a warm thread of light that _feels_ like her in his head, and a flicker of reassurance comes from it.

“Dooku may surprise me,” she says, perfectly even, “but I will have you and Blitz and Havoc to help me recover from it.”

“Which is great and all, but Dooku might get the drop on the three of us, too,” Blitz says, unimpressed. “Sith are good at that. We’ll watch your back. Just watch your front in return, General.”

Shaak smiles faintly. “I have no intention of dying today,” she says. “But should Dooku lose his life in this fight, I will have no regrets.”

She’s kind, but she’s also ruthless. Colt's fingers itch to reach out and touch, like that first sweet shock of realizing he _could_ all over again. Not a soft thing, maybe, or at least not _just_ soft, but—he wants to press her against the wall and cover her with his own body and watch her cut down their enemies, all at once.

He kissed her, and now they're going to face Dooku in his own territory. Colt has never felt the potential of losing weigh so heavily on him before.

Shaak's thoughts touch his own again, warm but peaceful, like a pool of still water reflecting sunlight. It’s steady reassurance, iron-clad faith, and Colt sets his jaw and lets himself breathe it in. Accepts it, lets her feel that, and gets a fond brush of her mind in return, perfect belief in him and his brothers caught up in the sleek lines of her certainty that the Force will guide them through. That there will be an after when they can take advantage of everything new between them.

“I’ll scout,” Havoc says, smiling a little, and ducks past them, slipping through the door with his sniper rifle slung over his back. He vanishes into the shadows within the mansion, and with a put-upon sigh Blitz follows, pointedly pushing the door mostly shut behind him, though he doesn’t go far. It makes Colt scowl, but he still takes advantage of the momentary privacy, stepping close.

Shaak doesn’t hesitate. She steps into him, lets Colt curl his hands around her waist and pull her that one bit closer. Leaning in, she rests their foreheads together, and for a moment all Colt can think about is that moment in the infirmary, Shaak holding his helmet so carefully. He hadn’t meant it to be a romantic gesture at the time. Not really. Just—

She’s always one of the things that he knows without hesitation that he can trust. Shaak will do whatever she can, whatever she needs to in order to keep Colt and all the clones like him safe.

Shaak smiles, and her fingers curl around his elbow, soft but unyielding. “There are no other clones just like you, Colt,” she says softly.

Colt closes his eyes, doesn’t lift his head. Lets her feel the way those words hit, what they mean. The Jedi have always seen individuals, where the rest of the galaxy sees the same person, repeated like an infinite number, bred for war. “I hope not, sir,” he says, means _I hope no one else feels like this about you, because I won't be kind to any competition_. She chuckles a little, and Colt tips his head, can't resist the urge to press his mouth to hers one more time. There’s still that burn of doing something he shouldn’t, but Colt ignores it, doesn’t _care_. She wants him to kiss her, she wants him to _stay_ with her, and Colt doesn’t care about a single karking other thing in the whole galaxy.

Shaak is a Jedi. Her duty is always going to come first. But Colt will make her duty his, and help her for as long as he’s allowed. That’s all he wants from the end of the war, however it happens.

When he pulls away, Shaak is smiling, her eyes warm with something like humor. “After,” she murmurs, and then, “That Mandalorian has circled the mansion twice now.”

“Three times, I think,” Colt says, and grins, hard and sharp. “They were coming around for their second circuit when we got here.”

Shaak chuckles. “Not one of Dooku's, I think,” she says, and then, “We shouldn’t keep the count waiting.”

“Havoc and his itchy trigger finger are probably getting impatient,” Colt agrees, and taps his forehead against hers once more. “General.”

“Commander.” Shaak's fingers frame his cheek for one instant before she pulls away, then pushes the door open and raises her comm. “Blitz, Havoc. As we discussed.”

“Planned,” Colt mutters, raising his blaster and following at her heels. The house is ornate, gloomy, and ostentatious. He hates it already.

“Jedi don’t plan,” Shaak says mildly, and Colt grimaces.

“General, please. My stress levels hate me enough already.”

“Release your worry into the Force, Colt, and all will be well.” The curve of Shaak's smile says she knows _exactly_ how that response aggravates him. Makes him want to kiss her again, too, but—most things do that, right now.

“Save the bickering for the bedroom, maybe,” Blitz says pointedly over the comm, and then, quick, “No offense, General Ti.”

Shaak just chuckles, unclipping her lightsaber from her belt. “Dooku is here,” is all she says. “Close.”

Colt takes a breath. Braces his blaster against his shoulder, wishes briefly for his armor, but—getting through Nar Shaddaa without being stopped was worth leaving it on the ship. “You can hide us?” he asks.

“She hardly needs to,” a cold voice says, and Colt twitches, spins, raising his weapon. Dooku is approaching down a long, wide hall, dark cloak flaring out behind him.

Without hesitation, Colt takes the shot. The red blade of Dooku's lightsaber reflects it back at him, and Colt has one half-second to feel a flare of fear before Shaak whirls in front of him, lightsaber lit. The bolt dissipates, and she raises her blade, unsmiling.

“Count,” she says politely.

“My old friend,” Dooku returns, equally gracious despite the chill in his eyes. “You’ve finally come to face me yourself?”

“This was never inevitable,” Shaak says, almost gently. “It is your choices that have brought us here. There has been too much suffering at your hands for me to sit back and allow it any longer, Dooku.”

“Allow it,” Dooku repeats, and if there were any warmth in that tone it would be amusement. “My lovely Shaak, you allow _nothing_. You simply cannot stop me.”

There’s a clatter behind him, and Colt jerks around just in time to see a squad of super battle droids marching through the main door. He curses, retreating a step to put his back to Shaak's, and tries to calculate how they can do this without forcing Havoc or Blitz to reveal themselves.

“Commander,” Shaak says evenly, and brings her lightsaber up, level across her body. “You have the droids?”

Super battle droids aren’t anyone’s idea of a good time, but Colt huffs. “Focus on the count, General,” he says flatly, and can feel her smile as her thoughts brush his.

“Very well, I leave them to you.” Shaak tilts her head, and says, “I am a merciful woman, Dooku, as befits a Jedi. I will offer you this opportunity to surrender, but I will not give you another.”

Colt can't help it; he grins, all ferocity and teeth. “Good hunting,” he says, and Shaak hums, a low, rumbling sound that’s more feline than anything. It makes his heartbeat pick up, lets adrenaline rise, and a flash of blue out of the corner of his eye just drives the anticipation higher.

“And the same to you, Colt,” she says, and is gone in a whirl of silks and humming blue. Colt hears her collide with Dooku, the clash of their lightsabers, hears his grunt as she forces him back a step, and feels a vicious flare of satisfaction. Even as the first droid lifts its blaster, he doesn’t move, just faces them squarely, guarding Shaak's back.

“I don’t think so,” he says to them, and—

In the darkness off the hall, a twin pair of red blades ignite, and something as cold as ice streaks through Colt's chest. He wrenches back, even as Ventress steps forward, and her eyes are burning with fury, the obvious marks of a fight on her, but she’s here and all but unharmed.

Apparently Quinlan wasn’t distraction enough, Colt thinks grimly, and aims right at her head as he fires.

A casual sweep of one lightsaber deflects the bolt, then the next two, and Ventress advances, smiling thinly.

“Well, well,” she says darkly. “A cute little rodent, trying to set up a nest. I’ll get rid of you first.”

Ventress _likes_ killing clones. She’s racked up a body count in the high hundreds at this point, and Colt breathes through the fear, lets certainty settle like a shroud.

He’s probably going to die facing her. He and Blitz and Havoc together won't be enough to stop her. Ventress is a Jedi killer, and she’s _good_ at it. And once he’s dead, she’ll go for Shaak, and even someone as skilled as Shaak Ti can't hold back Dooku and Ventress at the same time.

Karking hell. Colt sets his jaw, breathes, and lifts his chin. “Only one rat that I can see,” he retorts. “And it’s the bald, creepy one.”

Ventress scowls, lifts a hand. Colt feels the sharp jolt of a vast force grabbing him, lifting him right off his feet, and sees Ventress level her blade right at him.

“I suppose my enemies can't all be as charming as Obi-Wan,” she says, and the slant of her smile is a cruel thing. “What a shame.”

“Colt!” Blitz shouts, but even as he throws himself out into the open, the droids turn, aim at him, open fire. They drive him back, and Colt curses, struggling hard against Ventress’s hold. Wrenches at it, straining desperately—

Ventress yanks him across the hall, right at her blade, and Colt doesn’t even have time to shout.


	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An early update this week, since I won't be in a position to post tomorrow. Sorry!
> 
> ALSO: Cliffhanger warning, in case you're sensitive to those.

The blaster bolt is a surprise.

Colt sees it out of the corner of his eye, a streak of blue as Ventress’s blade nears. Catches the instant she sees it, too, the sharp widening of her eyes one half-second before she wrenches around, lightsaber flashing up. Her hold on Colt vanishes, and he hits the ground, rolls, comes to his feet already firing. The barrage makes Ventress leap back, surge up into the rafters, and behind the knot of droids a figure moves, blaster rising to follower her.

The Mandalorian, Colt realizes with a start, and turns, whistling high and sharp. Instantly, Havoc takes the shot, and Ventress, caught between them, cries out as a bolt strikes her. She’s thrown back, twists in midair and lands hard, with only a fraction of her usual grace. Staggers as she rises, one hand going to her side, and Havoc takes another shot instantly, the high-powered rifle almost too much for her to block. She hisses, deflects it, then has to spin to counter the Mandalorian’s flurry of shots as he advances.

“Colt! The general!” Blitz shouts, and Colt curses, wrenching around and aiming in one smooth motion. Takes the shot, and Dooku sidesteps it, but can't dodge the sweep of Shaak's blade as she lunges. He cries out as she carves a path down his chest, then snarls, and a wave of lightning leaps for her. Shaak throws a hand up, catching it in midair, right in her palm, and smiles.

“You’ll have to do better than that, my friend,” she says, and flicks a hand. Dooku's dramatic black cloak wrenches him sideways, flips up and over his head to blind him, and she spins close, kicks out a knee, and leaps the slash he aims at her ankles. Lands, ducks low, and Colt takes another shot as Dooku rises. It’s deflected, but there's no chance to try again; Blitz shouts a warning, and Colt throws himself down as a red lightsaber skims over his head, kicks a foot at Ventress’s legs, and hears her hiss. Rises out of range, just as the Mandalorian raises his blaster again.

It’s a shot at point-blank range, impossible to dodge or counter with Ventress wounded and already facing Colt, and the bolt hits her in the shoulder, makes her stagger and hiss. She wrenches around, a hand gesture flinging Colt back as she slices right through his blaster with a sharp slash of her lightsaber, and as he hits the wall on the far side of the hall with a winded gasp, Ventress rounds on the Mandalorian.

“Bounty hunter!” she snarls. “I’ll kill you where you stand!”

The Mandalorian reaches up, hauling his helmet off, and Colt barks out a laugh before he can help himself, shoves to his feet and abandons his bisected blaster in favor of his pistols, drawing them from their holsters and leveling them at Ventress.

“ _Kandosii, vod_ ,” he calls, and Wolffe smirks in return, his eyes never leaving Ventress.

“Looked like you could use some help, Colt,” he says. “Getting slow in your old age.”

“Trying to give you time to make your entrance,” Colt retorts, and circles Ventress, putting her right between him and Wolffe. She flicks a glance between them, eyes narrowing and mouth turning down, but all Colt feels is a flare of vicious satisfaction. She’s a clone killer. He’d execute her gladly, and call it justice for all the brothers she’s done the same to. “We saw you skulking in the street.”

Wolffe snorts, closing the gap, and he’s never a friendly man, but Colt's never seen his expression as cold as when his gaze locks with Ventress’s.

“You,” she says, silky, and Colt can _hear_ the menace in it. “Back for a rematch, sweetheart? Maybe I’ll take that other eye this time, too.”

Wolffe snarls, furious, but Colt takes the opening. Shoots Ventress in the back, watches her spin to counter, and takes three more shots, sees Wolffe raise his blaster and jerks clear. Ventress whips back towards the other commander, but not fast enough; the blaster rifle takes her in the same shoulder as before, and she cries out, staggers back. Brings her lightsabers up, teeth bared, and lunges straight at Colt, who sees her coming and jerks away, falls. He gets a foot in her stomach as his back hits the floor, kicks her right over his head, and rolls back to his feet, firing from barely a half a meter away.

As quick as a snake, Ventress twists around it, leaps up, flips off the wall. Lands hard, almost on top of Wolffe, and sends him crashing back into the opposite wall with a hard kick. Straightens, deflects Colt's next shot, and laughs.

“So _angry_ ,” she mocks, silky, amused. _Infuriating_ , and Colt has to grit his teeth, twitches when he hears Shaak gasp in pain but doesn’t let himself turn. “A pair of angry little boys waving their blasters at me, how cute.”

“Yeah, but these _little boys_ also want to rip your throat out,” a dark voice says, and Colt glances back, and—

Quinlan. Quinlan, limping, with his arm slung over a veiled spice runner’s shoulder, bleeding and bruised but grinning with _teeth_ , and Ventress’s eyes narrow as she flicks a glance over him.

“Making friends, Quin?” she asks. “And here I thought we had something.”

“It was definitely _something_ ,” Quinlan says, and his eyes are burning. He pulls away from the stranger, drawing the lightsaber from his belt, and says to Colt and Wolffe, “Back off. She’s mine.”

Wolffe snorts, and Colt rolls his eyes. “Nice try, General,” he says. “But maybe try that line _before_ she kicks your ass next time.”

Quinlan scoffs, but there's a flicker of amusement in his face. “Fine,” he says. “We’ll take the droids. Asajj, since you're so interested in my new friend, he can deal with you.”

Ventress’s expression of incredulity is beautiful as she looks from Quinlan to the spice runner. “ _Him_?” she scoffs.

The spice runner chuckles, and one four-fingered orange hand rises, pulling away the veils. “In a giving mood, Quinlan?” he asks, and that—that’s a voice Colt has heard before. The cloth falls away, and with a hum of interest, Plo Koon steps forward, lightyears away from anywhere he _should_ be, expression bright with good humor. “Shaak?” he calls politely. “Doing well?”

There's a scuffle, a grunt, and Colt spins just in time to see Shaak set her shoulder against Dooku's chest and throw him bodily, rising in a whirl of cloth and spinning lekku, her expression fierce. “Plo,” she returns, as measured as if they ran into each other in the Temple’s hallways. “I must admit, this is a surprise.”

Plo hums, shedding scarves and layers without care, and draws his lightsaber as Ventress retreats, eyes narrowing. “Ah, with everyone running off on their own missions, I thought I’d poke around a bit,” he says cheerfully. “Mind your footing.”

The floor beneath Shaak cracks, tumbles down into darkness just as Dooku rises, contained fury on his face. It makes Shaak snort, and she leaps for him like a predator as it gives way, drops low to sweep his feet out from under him and drives him back.

A shot from above makes Dooku fling a hand up to catch the bolt, and Shaak doesn’t hesitate. She brings the Force crashing down, toppling him forward into the hole he just made, and leaps after him, the blue of her lightsaber like a star in the darkness as they fall.

“General!” Colt shouts, but there’s no answer. He curses, but before he can take more than a step, Wolffe is next to him, slapping a grappling line into his hands.

“Go,” he says curtly, and Colt takes it and runs, anchoring the line to the beams above and leaping into the hole. There's a long, long drop into darkness, and all he can see below is a clash of red and blue, glowing against the black. Braces for impact—

Like a vast hand, the Force catches him, slows his fall to nothing, and Colt lands squarely on his feet with hardly even an impact. Takes two steps to the side and fires without hesitation, but Dooku counters with a flick of his blade, sending the bolts right back. Shaak blocks them, whirling in front of Colt with a flare of silks, and Colt leaps sideways, fires again and drives Dooku back. Perfectly in step, Shaak crashes into Dooku from the far side, thrusting high, sliding around Dooku's parry, twisting around his blade and then catching it on her own as he tries to thrust.

“You're becoming sloppy, Dooku,” she says. “A lack of restraint has done little for your skill.”

Dooku's eyes narrow. “It is more than enough skill to best a _Jedi_ ,” he says. “You have brought your men here to die, Shaak.”

“No,” Shaak says softly, and her blue blade presses against red, drives Dooku a step back as he grunts. “They accompanied me for a chance to save their fellow clones. A chance I will not let you steal from us.”

“With all due respect, sir,” Colt says, and meets Dooku's cold eyes as he takes a step back, “We’re here to watch you kick Seppie _shebs_ , too.”

Shaak chuckles, and the curve of her mouth is the same one Colt kissed just a brief hour ago. “Then I suppose I shouldn’t keep you waiting, Commander,” she says, and drops, Dooku's blade sweeping just over the tops of her montrals. Lashing out with a foot, she kicks his legs out from under him, makes him leap back, and Colt follows, fires grimly. Dooku blocks his shot with a hand, but that’s one hand not on his lightsaber, one instant of distraction, and Shaak takes advantage ruthlessly. She drives forward, blows so quick and deft Colt can hardly follow them. Dooku counters, one of the best swordsmen Colt's ever seen, but he’s on the defensive, being pushed back towards the wall, and Shaak isn't faltering.

And then, blurred-quick and vicious, Dooku lashes out, Force lightning crackling in one hand, and flings it. Shaak throws up a hand, catching it with a cry, dispersing it with obvious effort—

The red blade thrusts, and Colt shouts. He lunges, knocking Shaak's legs out from under her and surging to his feet right inside Dooku's guard. Sees the man’s eyes widen, but shoves his pistol up right underneath Dooku's chin too quick to counter as he meets his gaze.

“Do it and your general dies,” Dooku says, cold, and behind Colt there's a hiss, low and furious.

Somewhere outside of his own skin, Colt can feel the burn of a lightsaber pressed against a stomach not his own. Can feel Shaak's steady determination, unwavering, unfaltering, and swallows. Thinks of duty, and—

“General?” he asks.

Her mind is warm and bright against his, ferocity leashed, humor edged with gentle light. _Trust me_ , she tells him, and says, “Colt, fall back.”

Shaak's plan slides over his skin, settles, and Colt smiles. “Sure, General,” he says.

He pulls the trigger.

The Darkness here is overwhelming.

Mace breathes through it, grim, determined, and doesn’t let his long strides falter. Cody on his left keeps pace, boots loud on the floor, but there’s no time for caution now, no space for it.

 _Hurry_ , Shmi said, and she’s silent behind them, the set of her mouth something angry, her grip on the lantern so tight her knuckles have bleached of color. Fives, behind her, is struggling to stay close to her as she moves, and Mace can feel the white-bright light inside her flaring, rising, like a flame finally catching.

There's a pit of darkness ahead of them that almost matches it, and Mace lets his hands curl, ready to fist. Breathes, controls himself, and keeps moving.

“Fives,” Cody says curtly, and jerks his head at a narrow side corridor that cuts back towards the rear of the building. “Take Shmi.”

For a brief moment, Mace thinks Shmi is going to protest, thinks she’s about to halt. But instead, she says, “Be careful,” and slows, letting Fives catch up. Pauses for a heartbeat, holding Mace's eyes, and then says quietly, “Master Windu. Don’t hesitate.”

Meaning he’ll want to. Meaning whatever they're about to walk in on, it will test him. Mace meets her gaze, and the way the Force pools around her is something he’s never felt before, not in any living creature. Makes him think of wild things, and Haruun Kal at dawn, and Hurrikaine in the evening light. Nothing quiet, but everything serene, all contained in the body of a small, tired woman with greying hair and a galaxy in her eyes.

The Force brought her back. Whatever else started the process, the Force twisted in just the right way to set her free, and Shmi grabbed the chance with both hands and didn’t let go.

“I won't,” he says. “Lady Skywalker.”

Shmi closes her eyes for one long moment, then nods. Turns, vanishing down the hall with Fives at her heels, and vanishes into the spreading shadows there. Fives casts one glance back, and Mace nods to him as well, gets a strained grin and a salute in return, and then hurries after Shmi.

“Sure you want to leave them alone together?” Cody asks, but when Mace keeps moving he falls right into step.

Mace touches the Force, and—it’s clouded, almost completely obscured, but with Shmi he can feel the truth. “Whatever summoned her back, it doesn’t know she broke free,” he says. “Better to keep her as a surprise.”

Cody's breath is rueful. “If you say so,” he says, and pauses. Asks, just as the turn of the hall comes into sight, “How’s your feeling about all of this?”

Mace doesn’t answer. Can't, when everything is darkness.

“Oh,” Cody says grimly, and reaches out. Grabs Mace's wrist, and when Mace turns to look at him he gets one half-second flash of _just once want to do this just **once**_ and—

His back hits the wall. Cody pushes him up against the black stone, kisses him hard and fast, and Mace kisses back, gets his hands in Cody's hair and hauls him in. Cody's hands close around his waist, the force of his body pressing right up against Mace's, chest to chest, and he kisses Mace deeply, desperately, like he won't get the chance again.

Mace digs his fingers in and holds on, something aching deep down inside his chest. Breathes, feels Cody's shudder, and lets the curl of _we’ll explore this later_ make Cody huff a strangled laugh against his lips.

“What kind of honeymoon is it if we don’t try at least one ill-advised position?” he asks, and Mace snorts. Lets Cody pull him in, one last bruising kiss to steal his breath in a wash of spine-curling heat, and then pulls away, tracing the curve of Cody's scar with the pad of his thumb.

“I think we accounted for that when you rescued me from the leviathan,” he says, thinking of half-waking slung upside down over Cody's shoulders, and Cody groans, even though his expression is all amusement.

“Don’t phrase it like that,” he says. “ _Please_.”

Mace lets him feel his amusement, even as he turns away and picks up his pace again, long strides eating up the distance towards the next corner. Says, quiet, “Up ahead,” and feels Cody's flicker-flare of grim determination rise to swallow up the humor. His focus narrows, settles, and he nods, joking vanished behind a wall of intensity that makes Mace's skin prickle.

“Find a perch?” Cody asks, and Mace wants to keep Cody with him, where he can see him. Feels a wash of unease, but—

The darkness is so thick he can't see what the right answer is, or even if the feeling is his own or someone else’s.

“Yes,” he says, because that’s the only thing that he can say. And, “Be careful.”

Cody's smile is a wry flicker, and he reaches out, drags his fingers over the back of Mace's hand in one quick caress that still manages to steal Mace's breath. “You be more careful,” he returns, and splits off, following the curve of the hallway towards another door.

Mace doesn’t let himself pause, doesn’t look after Cody's retreating figure. He heads for the open entrance, huge doors standing wide, and feels the darkness _swarm_.

 _Sith Lord_ , he thinks, and knows it’s true.

He’s still hurt. The arm where Nostrem stabbed him hardly moves, and the ache from the Sith lightning sits heavy in his bones. It’s hardly the most promising start to a fight, but Mace breathes in, breathes out, and strides through the doors, drawing his lightsaber from his belt. Reaches for the Force, and in one hard push, without so much as hesitating, he grabs the tall, bearded man looming over Kix and a fallen clone in Coruscant Guard red and flings him back into the distant wall.

Instantly, Kix jerks, head rising as he uncurls from covering his patient. His eyes widen, locking on Mace, and he cries, “General, behind you!”

Mace can feel the intent, doesn’t need to look. He raises a hand, stilling the blaster bolts in midair, and turns. Two more Guards, their thoughts blank slates covered over by Dark power, and Mace touches their minds, drives all of his will behind a sharp order twisted up with the Force. “Sleep,” he tells them, and they both drop like stones.

Kix's breath shakes with relief, and he grabs the arm of the Guard he was shielding, pulls. “Come on, Commander, come on—”

With a groan, Commander Thorn staggers to his feet, helmet gone, head bleeding. He leans on Kix as Kix runs for the pair Mace knocked out, and Mace leaves him to it, igniting his lightsaber. Gets a half-second flare of warning and turns, purple blade meeting red with a bone-rattling hum.

“You,” the man says, eyes narrowed, furious. The air around him roils with anger and greed and a lust for power that sets Mace's teeth on edge. “Survived the leviathan, I see.”

Anticipation curls up Mace's spine, all claws. “The one who summoned Qui-Gon, I assume,” he returns, and the man laughs.

“Lord Jedgar, High Prophet of the Dark Side,” he says, mocking. “And you are Mace Windu, the Jedi Order’s greatest champion.”

“It sounds like you doubt me. Let me prove it to you,” Mace says coolly, and lets himself sink down into the Force. The Darkness here is great, overwhelming, but—

Vaapad is a technique that walks the edge of the darkness, but just as much it’s a technique that helps him find the light.

Force-quick, Mace disengages, twists around the sweep of Jedgar’s blade, and slashes hard, driving him back with three quick strokes. Jedgar’s eyes go wide, and he wrenches, ducks to the side, spins. His hand lashes out, a wave of Force crashing down like a tide, and the floor practically buckles beneath it.

Mace is quicker, though, more practiced, more prepared. He leaps, tumbles to land, strikes, and Jedgar only just manages to catch his blade. For an instant he strains, but Mace twists, unlocking their lightsabers. Sees, in one brief moment of perfect clarity, all the ways Jedgar can react, all of his ability and where it meets his cunning. The shatterpoint is clear, and Mace spins too fast to catch, sidesteps a block that’s just a little too slow, and slams a palm into the center of his back, all the power of the Force behind it.

Jedgar doesn’t even have time to brace himself. He’s flung straight forward into the wall, lightsaber tumbling from his grip, and crumples to the base of it with a groan. Doesn’t move, doesn’t rise, and Mace walks past him, heading for the sound of lightsabers clashing.

“Kix?” he asks.

“Fine, sir,” Kix says, steady, and rises to his feet, pulling one of the Guards with him. Thire, Mace thinks. Thorn is getting the other, an unfamiliar trooper, and Mace nodes shortly.

“Get to the ship,” he says, and touches Cody's mind.

 _Found a perch?_ he asks.

Cody's affirmative is a glimpse of the room from somewhere high. _If he’s a prophet, isn't he supposed to be able to see the future?_ he asks, amused, and the image of Jedgar getting flung spread-eagled into the wall is humorously exaggerated, almost makes Mace snort.

 _I didn’t plan, so there was nothing for him to see_ , he returns, and feels Cody's flicker of resigned exasperation for half a second before he steps around the edge of the cruiser and right into the middle of a duel.

“Master!” Anakin cries, and staggers back, throwing up a parry that’s hindered by the clone he’s half-carrying braced against his shoulder. The man across from him, hooded and cloaked and _Dark_ in a way Mace hadn’t known any living thing could be Dark, waves a languid hand, and lightning crackles. It makes Anakin fall back with a cry, and Mace takes two quick steps and leaps. Swings for the Sith Lord’s head, a blinding-quick stroke, but the man turns a half-step, lets it pass without striking, and throws up a hand.

After all the practice with the zombies, it’s easy to catch the lightning on his blade, to let it crackle into nothingness and straighten, staring at the Sith Lord in obvious challenge.

There's a long moment of silence, and then Mace asks quietly, “Anakin. Are you all right?”

With a ragged breath, Anakin hauls the clone up higher, lets the man fumble to get a better grip on his shoulder. “Never better, Master,” he says, grimly cheerful.

Mace snorts, eyeing the Sith Lord, and takes a step to the side, one forward. Puts himself between Anakin and the Sith, and says, “Good work.”

The sound Anakin makes is low, tired, but pleased. “Thank you, Master,” he says, and then, ragged, “It’s Palpatine.”

Mace almost freezes. Almost falters. Stares at the Sith, feeling like all the air has suddenly and abruptly been wrenched from his lungs, and—

The lash of that red blade is nearly fast enough to catch him off guard, but Shmi's _don’t hesitate_ rings in his head. Mace blocks it, drives forward, three hard, disconnected strokes that push the Sith Lord back, and spins. Twists low, dodging his blade, and rises sharply, one hand coming up. The flare of power strikes, and the Sith staggers back, throwing a hand up, but even if it’s not enough to do more than rock him back on his heels, it catches his hood, drags it back.

Palpatine. Mace breathes in, lets the furious ripple of dismay and betrayal slide out on the exhale. Refuses to be swayed, but—

“No wonder you were collecting emergency powers so quickly,” he says quietly, and doesn’t let himself indulge in the pulse of _I admired you, you're a traitor_ that beats in his chest. It makes sense. It hurts, but only because Mace has never seen the truth before.

He’s seeing it now, though, and it makes a chilling, unsettling amount of sense.

Palpatine smiles, kindly, amused. “A shame,” he says. “I had such high hopes for your fate, too, Master Windu. To have to end you here—well. I suppose not every plan works flawlessly.”

A flare of warning crosses the bond, and Mace says sharply, “Anakin.”

In a wash of blue that quickly settles into other colors, Qui-Gon appears out of thin air, stepping into being with his lightsaber already glowing in his hand. Anakin wrenches back, the clone staggering with him, and brings his own blade up, ready but off-balance. At the same moment, there's a heavy step, and Jedgar rounds the edge of the ship, limping, his face twisted in a snarl.

The color leeches from Anakin's face, and he jerks. Turns, eyes tracking something Mace can't see, and hisses, “Stop it!”

“One push,” Jedgar says, vicious, as Qui-Gon advances. “I see Merili already showed you a glimpse of your future, Vader. Would you like to see more?”

There's no way to get to him. Palpatine steps right between Anakin and Mace, watching Mace narrowly, and says, “I apologize for this, my boy. I had a much kinder fate planned for you, but the Prophets are rarely wrong.”

“Never wrong,” Jedgar rasps. “This mission would have left him firmly in the Light. If you want to salvage your apprentice, My Lord, you will make sure he falls here and now.”

Palpatine’s mouth pulls down, but he inclines his head. “Acceptable,” he allows. “Anakin, my boy, fate can still change. Those you love don’t need to die. I can teach you how to save them.”

Anakin's breath is strained, caught around the edges of a growl. He staggers, falling to one knee as his face goes a shade paler, but before Mace can reach for him, before he can offer anything, Palpatine steps forward. The sweep of his lightsaber is a blur of red, perfectly poised, and Mace only manages to counter it because he’s ready. Palpatine turns, and he’s fast, blurring-quick strokes that Mace has to push himself to meet. Parries, blocks, sidesteps, and Palpatine pushes him back towards the empty section of the hangar. There’s a ferocity to it that’s startling, almost unsettling, and some part of Mace struggles to connect the Supreme Chancellor, kind and weary and worn and hopeful, to this roil of Darkness and practiced swordsmanship. Tries, falters, and—

Gets a shock of warning, alarmed and furious in equal measure. Feels Cody's intent, his concentration and focus crystallizing, and a blaster bolt streaks right at Palpatine’s head.

Between one moment and the next, a wave of Force lifts Mace off his feet, sends him crashing into the hull of the cruiser with a bone-rattling thud. His head hits hard, sending stars flaring across his vision, and he hits the ground, rolls up to see Palpatine with a hand raised, the bolt frozen inches from his skull.

Those narrowed eyes bore into Mace, like Palpatine is prying secrets out from under his skin, and then, soft, he says, “Ah. I see you brought backup, Master Windu. How fortunate.”

Mace raises his lightsaber. “Yes,” he agrees coolly. “It is.” Reaches for the bond—

Palpatine _smiles_ , dark and evil and heady, and it sends claws skittering down Mace's spine as the Force screams a warning he can feel even through the darkness.

“You misunderstand, Master Windu,” he says, and there's nothing but glee in his voice. “Fortunate for _me_. Commander, execute Order 66.”

Mace has one instant to feel a wrench of confusion, the plummeting jerk of dread, and—

On the other end of their connection, Cody's thoughts go blank and still and _empty_ , and the next bolt streaks right towards Mace's chest without so much as a hesitation.


	38. Chapter 38

The bolt spins sideways off Mace's blade, and with a heavy thump of boots Cody drops from his perch on top of a command box, landing and straightening in one smooth motion. His expression is quiet, eyes narrowed, and in a familiar jerk he brings his blaster up, leveled right at Mace.

Taking a breath, Mace stares into eyes gone suddenly cold, feeling something settle like ice in his stomach. He reaches for Cody’s thoughts, and—

They feel strange. Sideways. Twisted out of order in a way Mace isn't familiar with, like a whirlpool caused by a boulder sunk beneath the surface in a quiet river. They _pull_ , hard, in one direction, and everything rings with a hollow echo that beats like a pulse.

“Traitor,” Cody says, soft, _flat_.

Mace lowers his blade. Like facing Depa on Haruun Kal, he knows himself, knows what he’ll allow himself to do. Hurting Cody will never be counted among those things, regardless of the circumstances.

“Cody,” Mace says quietly. “You're being controlled.”

Cody's fingers tighten on the blaster. “No,” he says. “I finally woke up. You're trying to kill the Chancellor. You're a _traitor_.”

His thoughts catch on that one word, stick. The boulder, Mace thinks. Everything eddies around that word. “The Chancellor is a Sith Lord,” he counters, and takes a step back. “Our duty to the Republic requires his arrest and removal.”

Palpatine laughed, ringing, _dark_. “Commander Cody, wasn’t it?” he asks, and Cody gives a short, sharp nod. “Well, Master Windu. I'm sure Master Kenobi will be most displeased if you kill his commander. Are you going to execute him in cold blood, simply for attempting to stop your treachery?”

Order 66, Mace thinks, and has to breathe through his flare of anger. That was what triggered this. Some sort of encoded command, but—Cody's thoughts are hard to touch, like they’ve become something foreign. The bond is still there, but distant. Achingly, terribly distant.

“You can't make me take an innocent life,” he says, and turns, putting his back to Cody to face Palpatine instead. Hears Cody's indrawn breath, the flare—

The blaster bolt hits the floor beside him, and Mace lowers his hand.

“But you plan to take mine,” Palpatine says, silky amusement and faux distress. “I’ve done nothing but strengthen this Republic and see to its troubles.” He raises a hand, and Mace brings his lightsaber up to catch the lightning that crackles from his fingertips. Meets Palpatine’s eyes across the floor, and breathes out.

He’s angry. He admired Palpatine, at one point, for all he did to preserve the Republic and lead it through the war. But this anger shouldn’t be personal, and yet—

A step, loud on the stone, and another blaster bolt slams into the floor beside him. Mace sets his teeth, but even that one small bit of distraction drives him back a step, the pressure of Palpatine’s lightning hissing across his blade too much to hold.

He reaches for Cody's mind again, gritting his teeth, and grasps for his thoughts. If he can put him to sleep—

An invisible force slams into his chest, lifting him right off his feet and sending him rolling across the ground. Quick, desperate, Mace twists to his feet, rises, blocks another shot. Palpatine lowers his hand, and right in front of him, Cody comes to a stop, braced and ready, blaster raised.

Mace won't hurt him to get to Palpatine. He _can't_ , or he isn't a Jedi. Executing the Supreme Chancellor for being a Sith Lord, in front of another Jedi and a whole squad of clones, is one thing, toeing the edge of the law. Going through Cody to do so? Mace would never forgive himself.

“Beware, Commander,” Palpatine says, and that’s a snake’s sly smile, vicious and pleased. “He seeks to control your thoughts. He wants to _manipulate_ you.”

“Yes, sir,” Cody answers, and his expression is a flat, calculating thing as he advances. “Mace, surrender. There's no coming back from betraying the Republic. If you’ve fallen this far—”

Mace lets his emotions settle. Watches Cody's expression for a long moment, steady, and feels out the edges of his thoughts, the twist of the bond as it frays between them. Still solid, still steady, but that strange pressure is overwhelming it, driving it down into darkness.

But Mace knows darkness, and he rises through it, leveling his lightsaber across his body as Cody approaches. “Cody,” he says, not trying for a command, just a reminder. “There's something in your head that isn't you. Do you feel it?”

“All I feel is _betrayed_ ,” Cody says, and takes another shot. Mace redirects it with a flick of his blade. It makes Cody's mouth thin, and he stalks closer.

Always, always, Cody's been the closest Mace has seen to how Jango moved, how he fought, but Mace sees it now more clearly than ever before. Shadows of Jango in every step, in the carelessly confident way Cody aims and fires and twists to the side, sidestepping the reflected bolt and firing again in the same motion. Mace lets that one rebound towards Palpatine, hears Cody's hiss of frustration, and raises a hand, concentrating for just one instant.

Cody's blaster jerks, twists, crumples in on itself.

“I won't fight you, Cody,” Mace says, and lets himself step forward. “This isn't right. Step aside.” Lets images rise, in his mind, of the tunnels below, of Cody's hand in his. Feeds them into the bond like he’s trying to overwhelm that strange, cold blankness, and—

Just for a moment, he thinks he sees Cody hesitate. Thinks he catches a change in expression, a twist of confusion. The strange pull eases, and the river flows.

And then, like a pulse of electricity, it vanishes. Cody lunges, low and fast, and flings his ruined blaster right at Mace's head. Mace jerks back a step, batting it away, and then sidesteps Cody's punch. Ducks a second, grabs the foot that lashes out at his stomach, and heaves. Cody hits the ground, then sweeps out a foot, and Mace leaps it, twists in midair to land on his feet, and doesn’t hesitate. He swings for Palpatine, Vaapad’s blurring-quick strike leaving a streak of violet through the air.

A red blade stops it, and Palpatine hisses out a laugh. “The Darkness in you is great,” he says, and the feeling of mental fingers digging into his skin makes Mace grit his teeth. “You would make a fearsome apprentice, Master Windu. I have always thought so.”

Mace snorts, unimpressed—

Feels the change in the air, half an instant before something sweeps towards his head. Automatic, he spins, lightsaber coming up to block, and—

The blade of a sword passes right through it, and with a hissing crackle the lightsaber shorts out.

A powerful kick slams into Mace's chest, and he’s thrown back, hits the floor and twists to his feet just in time to duck the sweeping slash of the warblade as it passes over his head. Cody steps in, spins, thrusts, and Mace falls back, clipping the useless hilt of his lightsaber to his belt again and leaping away, landing harder than he intends and staggering as Darkness washes across the room. It’s hard to breathe beneath the weight of it, hard to stand, and Mace wants to look towards Anakin and his fight but can't risk it. Not when Cody is advancing, warblade raised.

“Splendid,” Palpatine says, pleased. “Jedgar was correct, it seems.”

“Anakin will resist,” Mace says, and knows it’s true. Whether or not he’ll be successful, he’ll try, and that’s enough for now.

Palpatine hums, lazily thoughtful. “Yes,” he allows, “but with your death, Master Windu, he will be alone on Dromund Kaas, with no one to save him. And the Dark Side here is…overwhelming. Commander, execute the traitor.”

“Yes, sir,” Cody answers, grim, and twists the blade around his hand, then raises it. “Sorry, Mace,” he says flatly. “But you're a traitor, and I won't let you harm the Chancellor or the Republic.”

“Is this our divorce, then?” Mace asks dryly, retreating. He watches Cody follow him, turns his steps until they're moving parallel to Palpatine. “And to think, we survived so many other problems.”

Cody hesitates, and just for an instant Mace can feel something bloom across the bond, one flickering moment of confusion. “I—” he starts, and then stops short, frowning.

Mace stops, too, watching him. Feels a flicker of hope, rising sharply, and lets it bleed between them in a slow-bright wash. “Through the darkness,” he says quietly, “and back into the light.”

Cody remembers. Mace can see the half-second flicker of the memory, the wash of emotion tangled up in it, victory and relief and an edge of new wonder. Feels the hesitation, the confusion rising again—

The tumble of certainty that buries it, cold and deep and Dark.

“You're a traitor,” Cody says. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

Palpatine is watching, amused, like this is some great spectator sport. Mace ignores him, focuses on Cody, on the burn of the warblade in his mind, one forged piece of Darkness amidst all the others. It’s eager, angry, but that twist of intent makes him pause, makes him _think_.

“Then why aren’t you angry with me?” he asks, deliberate, and Cody frowns. Doesn’t quite hesitate, but it’s enough to make Mace take a step forward instead of retreating. “Cody,” he says. “If I were a traitor, you would be furious with me. Where is your anger? Can't you reach it?”

With a growl, Cody lunges, and Mace leaps back from the slash of the warblade, just a little faster than he expects. It slices across his tunics, just missing skin, and Cody twists, brings the blade around, lashes out. It skims past Mace's ear, opening a line down his collarbone, and he grimaces but doesn’t otherwise react, falling back a pace and dodging an elbow thrown towards his nose.

The blade pulses, _burns_. It makes Mace's senses swim, that one brush against his skin, and he has to breathe carefully, push through it. Push past the pain, as well, and _reach_.

He can see Cody's shatterpoint. Can see where the weakness of his body lies, just like with Jango. Harder to hit without a lightsaber, but Mace isn't solely reliant on his blade. If he moved a little faster, if he turned when Cody lunged and struck just right—

Mace's stomach turns, and he steps back. Looks at the warblade, settled right into Cody's being with threads of darkness, and can't see a shatterpoint to it. Only Cody, only its wielder, and Mace isn't about to let himself break Cody like he did Jango.

Palpatine has a shatterpoint. He’s quick, Mace has seen that, but Vaapad is unpredictable, erratic. It moves with the Force and not with the mind, and there's little chance of Palpatine predicting his blows. But to face him, Mace first has to get past Cody. Get past him without harming him, without failing, without letting Palpatine take advantage.

He curls his hands into fists. Fighting is simple, straightforward. Mace has always enjoyed it just a little too much. But this—this is something entirely different.

“Cody,” he says quietly, and when brown eyes narrow at him, he lets himself think of the moment bare minutes ago, pressed up against the wall. The way Cody's mouth felt on his, and more than that the overwhelming, unsettling feeling that it might be their last kiss, well before they ever got to a place where they could explore why they both wanted so very much.

The bond is buried in darkness, in emptiness. Mace lets the feelings flow down it regardless, because emotion isn't a weakness. Emotion moves the Jedi, makes them part of the galaxy. Uncontrolled emotion is the only flaw, and this—this Mace controls. This he _understands_ , because he knows what he feels.

Cody's breath shakes, and he grits his teeth, shakes his head. “No,” he says, desperate. “You're a traitor!”

“ _Yes_ ,” Palpatine says, gleeful. “A traitor to the Republic, to the Chancellor. Execute him, Commander. That is an _order_.”

Cody's expression twists, settles. He raises the sword. “Yes, sir,” he says grimly, and lunges.

It’s quick. Faster than it should be, more unhesitating. Cody ducks down, drives up with the blade leading, and Mace has to wrench to the side to avoid getting gutted. Sees the opening, the break, but deliberately avoids it, swings a punch for Cody's head instead. Cody dodges, one step ahead and already anticipating, and sweeps the blade out in a wide swing. Mace leaps it, flips, lands lightly, and immediately turns, raising a hand.

Harder to catch lightning in his palm than on a ‘saber, and it hurts more, stings like biting wasps burrowing into his skin. Mace grits his teeth, and Palpatine laughs, closing his fingers to cut off the flow. Into the gap, Cody rises, swinging, and Mace can't pull back in time. He takes the slash across the chest, doesn’t let himself hiss at the sharp shock of pain, and steps _in_. A foot between Cody's fouls his advance, and Mace grabs his sword arm, ducks, _pulls_.

Cody hits the ground on his back, then promptly kicks Mace's feet out from under him, drags him down, and rolls, slamming him into the floor. Mace's breath leaves him in a painful rush, but he throws up a hand, grabs for one of the ugly busts by the door even as Cody's arm falls across his throat like a bar, and sends it hurtling straight at Palpatine.

Palpatine sees it, turns. The bust goes spinning away to slam into the wall, but at the same moment Mace uses the distraction, grabs Cody's head between his hands. The gilt threads of their bond are still there, even through whatever Palpatine is doing to mute the connection, and he grabs for them, grabs for _Cody_ , just as the warblade stabs down.

There's something in Cody's head. Mace can _feel_ it, the stone that causes the whirlpool, the flaw in the glass of his mind. He shuts it out, drags Cody's thoughts away from it for one brief instant, and feels recognition flood fire-hot across the bond just as the warblade sinks deep into his shoulder and then scrapes stone. Mace muffles a cry behind gritted teeth, doesn’t block the pain that explodes across his nerves. Channels it, instead, like a lance driven right at the site of the distortion, and lets it flare across Cody's mind, a shield of fire.

Cody cries out, hunches forward, and the shift of the blade in his shoulder makes Mace gasp. But when Cody raises his head, he’s _back_.

“Mace?” he whispers, horrified, but there isn't time. Mace shoves every ounce of emotion down their bond, the fear, the care, the relief, the need to kiss him breathless and _prove_ he’s safe and in control of himself, and—

The cold tide returns, sweeping over them, and Mace fights through it. Drags Cody down, hands in his hair, minds connected, and feels his desperate, gasping sound half an instant before his thoughts spin back towards blank obedience.

This time, Mace is in his head. He stops it, dams the tide, and spins sleep around Cody's mind like a cocoon. With a groan, Cody slumps into his arms, shuddering, and goes still.

Mace's vision swims, darkens. He digs his fingers into Cody's hair, just trying to breathe, and attempts to hold back the black spots blooming behind his eyelids. Aches, all over, like all his strength is seeping out of him, but—

There's a step, loud, deliberate. Mace rolls Cody off of him, as careful as he can, and then reaches up, curling his hand around the hilt of the warblade. With a sharp cry, he wrenches it loose, then gets his feet under himself and rises, staggers, steadies.

Raising the blade between them, he meets Palpatine’s hungry gaze, ignores the blood running freely down his chest, and says, “That’s all? Really?”

Palpatine’s mouth thins, then splits in a smile, and that red blade hums to life. “Hardly,” he says, arrogant, easy. “Prepare yourself, Master Windu. This won't take long.”

For the first time in as long as he can remember, Tup wakes without having nightmares.

It’s startling. He opens his eyes without dread weighing at every limb, takes a breath that doesn’t shake with fear. Always, always, waking has been a terrifying, tortuous thing, almost as much as sleeping, but—

Not this time. Not now. There's a warning humming in the back of his head, like something that he’s forgotten which he needs to remember. But there's also something warm buried in Tup's chest, a seed about to sprout, and he knows before he even turns his head who’s going to be there with him.

“Vector,” he says, and knows he’s right.

There’s a breath, relieved, shaky, and Vector leans over him, pressing a hand lightly against Tup's shoulder before he can start to push up. “Hey, Tup,” he says, just a little wry. “You know, when I told you to give our squad a good name, I didn’t mean you had to become a _karking_ Jetii.”

Tup ducks his head, but he’s grinning, too. “You didn’t tell me _not_ to,” he counters, feeling light right down to his bones. He glances around the room, finds Chance by the door and Cay seated beside the bed, and carefully eases up on one elbow. “What are you doing here? Where’s Master Kolar?”

Cay grimaces. “Out with General Gallia,” he says, “apparently. She turned up about twenty minutes ago, and we got pulled right out of training by El-Les. He said General Kolar commed him, wanted us to keep an eye on you.”

“The surgery was successful,” AZI-3 offers, buzzing closer. It leans in, checking Tup over, and then tips its head. “General Ti is out of range, but I will contact her with your results. Congratulations, Commander Tup. Your chip has been successfully removed.”

“I can tell,” Tup says quietly, and sits up the rest of the way, putting a hand to his head. His hair is a short prickle across his scalp, unfamiliar and unsettling, but he twists the padawan braid around his fingers and rubs at the silka beads there, taking comfort in the fact that he still has this. He knew they were going to have to cut his hair, and it hurts, but—

Less now, with the padawan braid, than it might have when he looked like every other clone.

AZI-3 buzzes softly. “Your chip was degrading,” it tells him. “It was defective, which would account for your symptoms. With its removal, you should have no further problems.”

Symptoms. Like dreams of killing Jedi were just—side effects. Like a lingering cough, or allergies. Tub shivers, curling his arms around himself, and says quietly, “Thank you, AZI-3.”

“I am happy to assist,” the droid says kindly. "Should you need anything further, simply comm me, Commander.”

“All right,” Tup agrees, though he has no plans to do anything of the sort. He watches the droid leave, hears the main door seal, and then takes a breath, carefully sliding out of bed.

“Really think that’s a good idea, _Commander_?” Chance asks, but he sounds more concerned than anything.

Tup swallows. He thinks of Master Kolar's words about warnings translating to instinct, Master Shaak's quiet _they are a warning, Tup, not an inevitability. The Force shares them so we can know what we must work to avoid_.

He didn’t have nightmares, but he dreamed.

“Something’s coming,” he says, and knows he’s right. “It’s been coming since the Rishi Station fell, and now it’s almost here. I have to tell the Jedi, and—and alert the security forces—”

Vector pauses, always-serious expression twisting. He glances from Tup to Cay and Chance, and then pushes to his feet as well.

“Warn the generals,” he says grimly. “We’ll find El-Les and warn him, and he can activate security. If we tell him one of the Jedi told us to, he won't even question it.”

The fact that it won't be a lie is—bewildering, still. Tup nods firmly, taking a breath, and says, “Good luck.”

“You, too.” Vector offers him a hand, and Tup clasps it for a moment, then starts stripping out of his medical scrubs as his former squadmates leave. Master Kolar, who’s shorter and slimmer than a full-grown clone, left him robes, and Tup fumbles a little with the unfamiliar layers, struggles with the sashes, and finally gets them sorted.

He doesn’t feel like a cadet, right now. Still a clone, but—a Jedi, too, he thinks, and spares one glance for himself in the mirror on the wall. He _looks_ like a Jedi, and that’s somehow more startling than any other part of this, seeing a clone’s face above the familiar brown robes. It’s not jarring, though. It _fits_.

Maybe Tup feels like a Jedi. He’s not sure, because this is just how he’s always felt. But—lighter, now. Better.

When he steps out of Shaak's quarters, the halls are strangely deserted, hushed. Tup hesitates there, looking first one way and then the other, before a touch of instinct has him turning right, towards Nala Se’s office. The Force, he thinks, and wants to grin, wants to spend a moment feeling breathless and wondering, because it’s been _terrifying_ for so long but now it’s not.

This dream isn't a dead general, betrayal, _good soldiers follow orders_. Those are gone, and Tup can breathe. This is a warning, and it’s heavy, but it’s something he can _change_. It’s a good thing.

He’s out of breath by the time he makes it to the corridors by Nala Se’s office, practically skidding around the corner, and he sidesteps automatically. There's a yelp, a thud, and the clone he almost collided with, a pilot with command stripes, pulls back so sharply he almost falls over.

“Commander!” the pilot says, alarmed. “You—I—” He breaks off sharply, staring, and then stops, closing his eyes for one long beat. “Kriff,” he mutters. “No offense, Commander, but that’s _weird_. A brother as a Jedi. Hells.”

Tup flushes faintly, but says, “Sorry, Commander. Uh. Is Master Kolar—”

Further up the hall, in one of the labs, something breaks, and there’s a cry.

“I’ll give you one guess,” the commander says dryly.

Tup swallows a wholly inappropriate sound of amusement, ducking past the pilot and heading for the room at a run. The door is standing open, and when he pauses there, his eyes widen sharply.

It’s Nala Se’s favorite lab, with three of her most highly-ranked scientists being held at blaster-point by armed troopers in flight armor. Nala Se herself is up against the wall, looking furious, with Master Kolar's blue lightsaber barely a centimeter from her throat. Behind him, Master Gallia has her arms folded over her chest, expression severe, with Lama Su looking distressed beside her.

“­—can't interfere in the workings of an independent laboratory—”

“Prime Minister,” Master Gallia cuts in. “We have proof that the scientists here knowingly worked with the Separatists. And given both your contract with the Republic and your recent admittance into it, I assume you realize that I have _full_ authority to seize this whole facility.” Her eyes narrow, and she studies Nala Se for a long moment. “As well as charge any conspirators with treason against the Republic.”

“Um,” Tup says, and raises a hand. When Gallia turns to look at him, he winces, but says, “Master, there’s—there's a problem.”

Gallia doesn’t so much as flinch. “Of course,” she says, bland, and nods. “Well, padawan?”

“Something’s coming,” Tup blurts. “An attack. Soon. I think it’s Grievous, si—Master.”

Violet eyes widen, then narrow, and Gallia draws herself up straight. “Interesting,” she says. “Obi-Wan and Aayla lost sight of him, didn’t they? We should have known that he’d crawl into view here.”

From behind Tup, there’s a sharply indrawn breath. “Sir,” the pilot commander says. “Should I get the men back in the air? If there are cruisers coming—”

Gallia grimaces. “We’ll be outgunned,” she says. “Swipe, keep your squad with Master Kolar and take the scientists into custody. Agen?”

Master Kolar's eyes are dark and steady and cold. “Go,” he says, not looking away from Nala Se. “I’ll catch up. Prime Minister, you are about to lose your facility and your main source of income if you do not cooperate.”

“Agen,” Gallia says, faintly chiding, but she immediately turns on her heel and stalks towards the door. “Odd Ball, see if there are any new graduates who haven’t shipped out yet and get them armed. Trickshot, see to the air defenses. I don’t want our men sacrificing themselves needlessly up there. Bail, coordinate with the facility’s security force. Padawan, with me.”

There's a chorus of agreement, but Tup doesn’t pause. He hurries after Gallia, and she’s shorter but he still has to rush to keep up with her strides. As soon as he falls into step, though, she glances over at him, and asks, “A dream?”

Tup nods quickly. “I—they were attacking underwater,” he says. “I'm _sure_ of it.”

Gallia breathes out, grimaces. Brings her comm up, activates it, and says, “Odd Ball, activate whatever SCUBA troopers there are available, and get them stationed beneath the facility. We’re expecting an attack from that direction, so hurry. Agen, once you're done there, get to the Genetic Records hall, as well. If they're trying to cripple the facility, that will be their first target.”

Gallia didn’t even _hesitate_ to believe him. Tup swallows, and as she lowers her comm, he says, “Thank you, Master Gallia.”

Her mouth curves in a wry smile, lightening her features for just a moment. “We’re Jedi, Tup,” she says. “Our dreams are always to be heeded, even if we try not to obsess over them. I would rather activate all security for a false alarm than ignore you and have Grievous take us by surprise.”

“Will it be enough?” Tup asks worriedly. “If Grievous has cruisers—”

“It will be enough for us to hold out,” Gallia says determinedly, and lifts her comm again. “Eeth, are you there? How is the fighting where you are?”

There's a long moment, then a crackle of static, cut through with the sound of blaster fire. “Dying down,” Master Koth says. “Is something wrong, Adi?”

“Apparently, we’ve found Grievous,” Gallia says dryly. “Shaak's new padawan caught wind of him. He’s going to attack the cloning facilities on Kamino very shortly.”

Tense silence is all the comes for a handful of heartbeats, and then Master Koth takes a breath. “I’ll see what I can do,” he promises. “Kit may be closer, and more able to leave.”

“Kit only has a handful of forces with him.” Gallia looks grim. “I’ll take whatever and whoever you can send, though. I only have one wing of starfighters with me, and Agen doesn’t have a battalion of his own.”

Koth’s exhale is heavy. “We’ll be there, Adi,” he says firmly, and cuts the connection.

Gallia glances back at Tup, and her smile is crooked. “Well,” she says. “Welcome to the Order, padawan. Let’s find you a blaster at the very least.”

“Thank you, Master,” Tup says, smiling back faintly. Pauses, and asks, “Do you—do you know anything about how Master Shaak is doing?”

Gallia pauses, looking away down the hall, and for a long moment she doesn’t answer. “She’s putting herself right in the middle of trouble, I have no doubt,” she says. “But have faith. She’s equally good at getting out of it.”

Tup swallows. That’s not precisely reassuring, but—

Compared to what they have bearing down on them, he’ll take it.


	39. Chapter 39

Colt's shot freezes a bare fraction of a centimeter from Dooku's skin, stilled in the air, but Colt never thought it would hit. Never expected a blaster bolt to be Dooku's end, so he doesn’t even hesitate. Drives forward in the one half-second of Dooku's distraction, driving his shoulder into Dooku's chest, and takes him down the same way he would any other man.

They land hard, and Dooku _snarls_. “Your general is _dead_!” he hisses at Colt, but from behind him Colt can hear the hiss of a lightsaber, a deep hum.

That one half-second is all Shaak needed, and Colt lets out a short, vicious laugh, slamming Dooku's head back into the stone of the floor. An invisible hand grabs him, hauls him up and off and throws him, but Colt twists in the air, hits hard and rolls right back to his feet as the two halves of Dooku's lightsaber clatter to the ground by the count’s boots.

Shaak rises, lightsaber glowing, expression as set as any predator before its wounded prey. “No,” she says. “The only thing that will die here is your plans. For the Republic and the clones alike.”

Dooku pauses, gaze flickering from Shaak to Colt, who gives him a thin smile. His eyes narrow, and he pulls himself to his feet, taking a deliberate step back. “I would have assumed,” he says, cold, “that any plans for the Republic would include the clones. Have you finally seen that they are disposable weapons, my old friend?”

“Everything is a disposable weapon to you, Dooku,” Shaak says simply. “This is where the Dark Side has led you. But I would think that the brainwashing of millions would make even you hesitate.”

Colt can see the moment when Shaak's words register, the perfect stillness that comes over Dooku's face. He stares at her, and Shaak smiles, slow and deadly.

“Did you think we wouldn’t figure it out?” she asks softly. “With those chips, you could have a whole army, and you’d only have to destroy thousands of sentient beings for it.”

There's a long, long pause. And then, slowly, Dooku _smiles._

“You always were far too clever for your own good, Shaak,” he says softly. “A shame, then, that you can't keep anyone you love alive, isn't it?”

It’s easy to see the words hit. Shaak's flinch isn't visible, is hidden around her eyes and in curl of her mouth, but Colt sees the impact. He takes a step forward, wanting to put himself in between her and Dooku, but remembers himself in time. Stops, instead, and takes a breath, tightening his grip on his blasters.

“I am a Jedi,” Shaak says, soft. “I accept the will of the Force, Dooku.”

Dooku's expression is nothing but cruelty. “Yes, yes. But…isn't it interesting that neither of your padawans lived a month beyond their Knighting? Once is a tragedy, Shaak, but…I might call twice the flaws of the teacher.”

Colt can see the movement before it comes, and when Dooku lunges he’s already throwing himself forward, plowing shoulder-first into Dooku's side and whirling, grabbing Shaak to shove her behind him. Hears her startled breath, and says, “General—”

“Yes,” Shaak says grimly, and raises her lightsaber again, stepping forward in time to intercept a crackling wash of Force lightning. Colt can see the effort it takes, the way her eyes narrow and her mouth thins, and he aims, fires, sidesteps and fires again, and Dooku jerks, throwing up a hand to block the shot. The lightning dies with a crackle, just as an invisible hand snatches Colt by the throat. He has one instant to yelp—

“ _No_ ,” Shaak says, and in an instant she’s across the space, whirling towards Dooku in a blur. Dooku wrenches back, but not nearly fast enough.

The sweep of Shaak's blade scores a long line of cauterized flesh down his arm, and he _howls_.

From above, there’s a sound of fury, and half an instant later another figure is falling, red lightsabers out and ready. Colt wrenches around, fires, but Ventress blocks the shots, lands, lunges—

Behind her, even quicker, Plo drops, twists, and kicks her right into the far wall as he hits the ground. Behind him, without him even having to look, Wolffe tumbles down in a controlled fall, slow enough that it’s obvious Plo has him. His blaster fires, and Colt moves to match him, distracting Ventress before she can do more than take a step towards Plo.

“Master!” Ventress snarls, and surges forward, trying to drive Plo back. He hems her in, drives her away from Wolffe as he lands, and she hisses at him but retreats. Falls back, and Colt turns towards his general, something like victory surging.

If Shaak feels the same thing, Colt can't read it in her face. She stands over Dooku, blade at his throat, and her eyes are sad but steady.

“Surrender, Dooku,” she tells him, soft. “You’ve lost here.”

There's a long, long moment of silence, and then Dooku tilts his head and closes his eyes. “I may have,” he allows, even over Ventress’s sound of fury, “but my master will not be so easily defeated, Shaak. You already failed both of your padawans. Are you truly prepared to fail the entirety of the clone army? To fail the Republic as a whole as it lurches forward, bloated and dying, towards its demise?”

Colt growls, advancing, but Shaak doesn’t so much as flinch. “Perhaps I will,” she allows. “Perhaps it is a doomed effort, to hold the Republic together in the midst of this. But my way at least does not lead to the deaths of billions and the profit of monsters. You were a Jedi once, Dooku. No matter how far you have fallen, surely you must see that there are no winners to be had in this war.” For a long stretch of seconds, she studies him, and then says quietly, “Not even your Master, in the run of things.”

Dooku snorts. “You have no idea of my Master’s capabilities,” he says, “or his plans. You see me as the greatest enemy—”

“No,” Shaak interrupts, steely. “I see you as a dark, corrupted thing, but your Master holds your leash still. And I will tear it from his grasp if I must. Do you yield?”

Dooku's expression tightens, and he tips his head in an aborted nod. It makes Shaak smile, and she raises a hand. For an instant, Dooku's eyes flicker from her to Colt, then to Ventress, and Colt goes cold. He spins, blasters coming up, and fires automatically.

Ventress is a snake, though. She twists right through it, deflecting the bolts, and lashes out with fury on her face.

“Colt!” Wolffe snarls, but Colt can't move. Shaak is focused on Dooku, has to hold him or this is all for nothing. Ventress is lunging, and Colt won't let her kill his general. He sets his jaw, ducks low, and as Ventress lands he throws himself right at her.

It’s the one move she’s not expecting. Her eyes go wide, and she tries to leap clear, but Colt is too close. He flattens her, knocks one hand with a lightsaber wide, feels her flip her other blade around and slash down—

A blue blade blocks it, and Plo deliberately sets a boot on her other wrist, pinning it. “I'm afraid,” he says politely, almost warmly, except Colt can see the tension in him, “that I can't allow you to harm another trooper, Ventress. Surrender.”

“ _Never_ ,” Ventress hisses, and twists hard. A foot catches Colt in the chest, and she spins to her feet, one hard push with the Force throwing Plo back. Wolffe lunges to catch his general, firing as he goes, and Ventress snarls, blocks the shots. Colt rolls up enough to fire as well, driving her back, and in one sharp surge she throws herself up towards the lip of the floor above, then vanishes over the edge.

There's a shout, a cry. Colt jerks, wanting to get to Blitz, to Havoc before she can slaughter them—

The familiar sound of Havoc’s rifle echoes, and lightsabers crash together. Plo takes a step, orders, “Wolffe, help Shaak,” and then follows Ventress.

Tense, clearly unhappy about it, Wolffe lowers his blaster with a grimace, then offers Colt a hand. “Still in one piece?” he asks.

Colt grunts, glancing at Shaak, who hasn’t wavered, hasn’t looked away from Dooku. He’s glad; Dooku is worth a thousand times what Ventress is, and if he makes use of the distraction, manages to slip away, this will all have been pointless. “Mostly,” he says.

“Better than my first encounter with that witch,” Wolffe says, only a little bitter. He pulls a pair of cuffs from his belt and says, “General Ti, I can secure the prisoner.”

Dooku's mouth thins, eyes narrowing, but Shaak just hums. “Thank you, Commander Wolffe,” she says. “Stun cuffs?”

“Force shackles,” Wolffe corrects, and looks viciously pleased about it.

With a quiet chuckle, Shaak steps back far enough to let him get to Dooku, though her lightsaber never shifts. “Fully dedicated to the role, I see,” she says in amusement.

“The armor’s from the Temple. No Jedi has ever heard of restraint,” Wolffe says, unimpressed. “No offense, General.”

Shaak watches him pull Dooku's arms around behind him and snap the cuffs into place. “None taken, Wolffe, I assure you.” As Wolffe hauls Dooku to his feet, she turns, and Colt takes a breath, holstering his pistols and stepping forward. Shaak doesn’t reach for him, doesn’t step away from Dooku, but her thoughts curl around his in a warm-bright wash, one touch to check and then a lingering brush that curls heat through his bones, like lying in the sun after days in the cold.

Silently, Colt reaches back, lets her sense his collection of bumps and bruises that don’t amount to much, and feels her quiet concern anyway. Feels the _later_ that’s like a touchstone, like a promise, and lets himself ease back enough to give her a crooked smile.

“I'm fine,” he says quietly.

“A rather surprising outcome,” she allows, amused, and Colt snorts.

With a roll of his eyes, Wolffe shoves Dooku a step forward. “Are we done here?” he asks.

Shaak hums, raising her comm. “If I recall correctly, Master Tiin and his fleet are just over the border in Republic space,” she says. “They’ll be able to take the count into custody. We are needed back on Kamino.”

Colt frowns, not entirely liking the sound of that. “Sir?” he asks warily.

“Just a feeling,” Shaak allows, “but a persistent one.” She takes Dooku's elbow, graceful and polite as if they're in a Senate hallway somewhere, as if Colt can't see the predator’s slant to her smile. “Brace yourself, please, Dooku.”

Dooku scowls at her, but lets her lift him, leap them up to the top floor. A moment later, Colt feels the Force catch him and Wolffe, lifting them along with her, and grimaces faintly but doesn’t struggle. It deposits them on solid ground a moment later, and Colt immediately takes three steps forward to crouch down next to Blitz.

“All right, vod?” he asks in concern, but Blitz waves him away.

“Ventress bounced me off one too many walls, and my head isn't as hard as yours,” he says, and Colt snorts.

“Now that’s a lie,” he says, and clasps wrists with Blitz, hauling him to his feet. Blitz staggers, then hobbles, and Colt pulls his arm over his shoulder and looks for the Jedi. Quinlan is the only one visible, sitting on the mansion’s steps with a clearly broken arm held carefully to his chest, but he rises when he sees Shaak, and Havoc, next to him, helps him stay on his feet when he wavers.

“Ventress?” Wolffe asks sharply.

“Plo chased her off,” Quinlan says, waving his good hand toward the street. “He lost her in the crowd, though. He’s on his way back now.”

Wolffe grimaces, but nods. “Odds that she’ll jump us on our way to the spaceport?” he asks grimly.

“Slim,” Shaak says, and pushes Dooku forward. “Blitz, please see if you can raise Saesee Tiin and his fleet for a prisoner pickup. We should rendezvous with him as soon as possible, but I do not think Ventress will be a threat.”

“She is a ruthless and independent child,” Dooku says, grim. “You underestimate her, Shaak.”

“No, my friend, I do not,” Shaak returns, unwavering. “You are both Sith. Whatever loyalty she has for you, it will be outweighed by her hope that she can take your place.” A pause, as she watches Dooku's tense posture, and then she says softly, “This is the path you chose, Dooku. One of betrayal and cruelty. It was your own choice to walk this road. Qui-Gon would be disappointed in you.”

Colt almost thinks he sees Dooku flinch at that. Not much, not obviously, but—it’s definitely there. He snorts, then nods to Plo as he emerges from the surrounding streets. “Thanks for the save, General,” he says.

Plo chuckles, though Colt thinks he catches his eyes lingering on Dooku for a long moment. It’s hard to tell behind the goggles. “My pleasure, Commander Colt. I must admit, finding the four of you here was a surprise.”

“A pleasant one, I hope,” Shaak says politely, and smiles at him. “Your mission is complete?”

“Mission?” Quinlan scoffs. “He was just tagging along to stick his nose into everything.”

“Overseeing the dissemination of information,” Plo counters cheerfully. “Though I'm glad we could be of assistance. May we accompany you to your destination?”

“Three Jedi to hold one civilian?” Dooku asks, contemptuous. “Do you fear me that much?”

Shaak ignores him like he’s an insect under her boot. It makes Colt grin. “Yes, if you wouldn’t mind, Plo, Quinlan. I would rather not risk his escape.”

“No worries,” Quinlan says, lazily intent, and smirks at Dooku's dark look. “With the count out of the picture, I don’t have a mission anymore.”

“Mission,” Havoc repeats, brows rising. “You were here on a mission? As a spy?”

“The treachery expected of a Jedi,” Dooku says darkly. “I had hoped you would live up to my expectations, Quinlan, but it seems you are eternally a disappointment.”

“A disappointment to a Sith? I think I can live with that.” Quinlan's eyes are cold, but his smirk, when he turns it on Havoc, is something close to cheerful. “Got a bone-mender on your ship? I bartered mine to a pirate a few weeks ago.”

“I think we can figure something out, sir.” Havoc steadies him with a hand on his shoulder, then asks, “General Ti, the chips?”

“If Dooku didn’t activate them during the fight, I assume he can't,” Shaak says. “Your brothers should be safe from that, at least, while guarding him.”

Colt grimaces, not wanting to think about what could have happened if Dooku _had_ been able to do that. It’s…horrifying. Especially given the way Shaak hadn’t hesitated to let him help her fight, to give him her back.

“One piece of good,” he says grimly, and falls in one step behind Shaak, eyes on Dooku.

Shaak turns her head just enough to cast him a smile. “I think there's far more than just one piece,” she says, and the touch of her mind to his brings with it that soft kiss on the doorstep, the press of their foreheads, the feel of Colt's hands.

Colt breathes in, breathes out. Thinks of good things, and smiles back.

“Just a few,” he agrees, and ignores Blitz’s pointed groan in favor of Shaak's soft, warm laugh. It’s more than enough.

Hitting the ground jars Fox back to abrupt awareness.

For a moment he can't figure out what’s happened, lies where he fell with his head spinning and the fiery, furious ache inside his skull all he can focus on. He feels like he’s been hollowed out and haphazardly patched back together, like the glue is already coming apart, but—

A voice, somewhere above him, is hissing denials. There's a sense of something _dark_ , like stepping into a room with a flickering light that’s about to go out, or passing into an unlit tunnel, and for a moment Fox can't breathe through the weight of it, like dread.

There's something soft over his wrist. Right in the gap between gauntlet and armor, he can feel cloth, and when he finally manages to pry his eyes open with an effort, his gaze catches on black fabric. Black fabric over brown, with a wide sash, and a broad back in front of him, blocking him from sight. Blocking him from _attack_ , and Fox can just see a man in a dark cloak, hand raised, something like madness on his face. Lord Jedgar, he thinks, but that makes him think of Lady Merili and his stomach turns.

But he can't see Jedgar well. Not clearly. Because Anakin is in between him and the threat, doubled over and gasping, his hands clamped to his temples.

“Just give in, Anakin,” a man’s quiet voice says, and a moment later a man with long, greying hair crouches down in front of Anakin, face kind, eyes warm. He should look like a good man, but—

Something like horror crawls down Fox’s spine, and he stares behind the cover of his helmet, feeling a little like a mouse in front of a hawk. Doesn’t blink, doesn’t move, even as Anakin twists in on himself, a low, pained noise breaking from his throat.

“Qui-Gon,” he gasps, “Qui-Gon, I _can't_ —”

“You don’t need to,” Qui-Gon says gently, and he rests a hand on Anakin's shoulder, ignores his flinch. Curls it there, and—

It’s like there are black shadows bleeding into Anakin through the press of his hand. Like it’s spreading corruption, the point where rot starts. Anakin's breaths are growing sharper, harsher, and Fox can see his hands go white-knuckled, the way his whole body curves inward.

“Don’t resist,” Qui-Gon says. “Giving in is so much easier. Nothing will be lost if you do, but everything will be saved. Senator Amidala, your padawan, Obi-Wan—if you have more power, you can save them, Anakin.”

That voice feels like rot, too. And—maybe it’s is imagination, but Fox can feel it settling in, barbs sinking themselves beneath Anakin's skin. Can feel him wavering, and knows bone-deep and immediate that it’s _wrong_.

His blasters are gone, lost when he tried to pull them on the Chancellor. His vibroblade was lost killing a vornskr some time before Anakin found them. Fox doesn’t have a weapon, and there's no way he can hold off a Sith and a man who looks like a Jedi singlehandedly. Even with a weapon, his odds would be terrible, but like this, he has no chance. Desperately, he drops his gaze, looking for something, _anything_ —

Anakin's lightsaber is on the ground barely a meter away, lying where he must have dropped it.

Fox stares at it for a long moment, running through the calculations. Knows, objectively, what a lightsaber means to a Jedi, and how grabbing it would be like a brother stealing another clone’s helmet, but—

He thinks of Anakin's forehead resting against his, the curl of impossible heat that twisted through his chest. A Keldabe kiss, and maybe it’s not the same for a Jedi as it is a Mandalorian, but that doesn’t mean it has any less of an impact for Fox. A kiss after a rescue, and maybe Fox should feel guilty for doing that to Senator Amidala, should have remembered himself, but it was one bright thing in an expanse of darkness, and he hadn’t been able to resist.

Fox hadn’t stepped into the hangar expecting to survive getting Jek and Thire out of the way, after all. It shouldn’t have mattered.

But then Anakin saved him again, and it _did_.

It’s ironic, amusing, that the one senator Fox has ever felt anything for is apparently in some kind of relationship with the Jedi he’s always admired. That Padmé Amidala is the one he’d hurt, if she knew about the kiss, and she’s one of the few people in the Senate who makes things bearable. But—

At the very least he can save her lover. Can give Anakin a _chance_.

“Ani,” Qui-Gon urges gently. “Just reach for the rage. Feel the power it gives you. All you have to do is use it—”

“I'm a _Jedi_ ,” Anakin croaks. “I'm a Jedi, I _won't_ —”

Fox _lunges_. One hard roll, a grab, and he shoves to his feet, thumb finding the button on the hilt with a familiarity he shouldn’t feel. The glowing blue blade ignites, and Fox spares half a second to assess the threats. Even if Lord Jedgar feels more dangerous, Qui-Gon is the immediate threat, is more dangerous to Anakin, and that makes the decision easy. He swings for Qui-Gon’s head, and the man has one shattered fraction of an instant to react, but he still manages it. Jerks back, rising—

Not fast enough. Fox is good with any weapon, better with a vibrosword. The lightsaber’s oddly weighted, not anything like what he’s used to, but the idea is the same. Fox adjusts for the weight, for the feel of the thrust, and sinks the blade right into Qui-Gon’s chest, straight through the center and all the way through.

For one heartbeat, Qui-Gon stares. Fox stares back, set, angry, and—

Qui-Gon’s form bleeds blue. The color slides out of his body, and so does the tangibility. So does the _darkness_ , and Fox jerks a step back, startled, but able to feel it clearly. Qui-Gon’s expression twists into relief, and he smiles at Fox, then…vanishes.

Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn, Fox thinks, and has to swallow. Killed by a Sith on Naboo, stabbed through the chest by a lightsaber. He’d forgotten.

“ _No_ ,” Jedgar growls, furious, and takes a step forward, raising a hand. Behind Fox. Anakin cries out a denial, desperate, and Fox takes a deliberate step back, blocking him from the Sith.

“I don’t think so,” Fox says coldly. “Leave.”

Jedgar’s expression contorts. “A _toy_ is going to stop me?” he demands, and laughs. “You’ve never even held a lightsaber before, boy. There's nothing to you but cloned cells and the instincts of a weapon.”

If he thinks Fox hasn’t heard worse practically every day of his existence, serving in the Senate as he does, he’s really insane. Fox snorts, doesn’t even waver. Just tilts the blade across his body, leveling it to guard, and hears the shift behind him, the ragged indrawn breath.

“Fox?” Anakin asks.

“Yes, sir,” Fox says, but Jedgar’s eyes flicker from him to Anakin, narrow.

There's a long, long pause, and then he smiles.

“Ah,” he says, and that expression is a dark, chilling one. “You’ve found yourself a pet, Lord Vader. How sweet. Will his death make you angry, I wonder? You were so desperate to save him, after all.” He takes a step forward, and this time Fox does step back, a thread of ice winding its way down his spine. “If he’s grievously wounded, who will you turn to in order to save him?”

Slagging _hells,_ Fox thinks, and grits his teeth. Hears the furious sound of denial as Anakin staggers to his feet, but Jedgar is moving, red lightsaber appearing in his hand and lashing out, and Fox throws all his weight behind the blow to block it. The impact rattles right through him, sends him staggering back, but he grits his teeth and presses forward as best he can, then ducks. Spins to the side, letting another blow just miss him, and retreats three long steps towards the main door as Jedgar follows, then keeps retreating.

If he can just get him away, out of range of Anakin, it will give Anakin time to regroup, to ready himself. Fox can be the distraction, the bait. Jedgar will take it, in the name of hurting Anakin, and that’s fine.

And then, out of the corner of his eye, Fox catches a flash of mostly-white armor streaked with blue.

He doesn’t let himself react, doesn’t look. But what Thorn said is easy to recall. He and Rys got stunned by a trooper, practically a shiny, who came with Anakin. Fox would bet anything it’s that same shiny running for his general right now, hauling him up and off the ground with a shoulder under his arm. And, with him—

A small Human woman, dressed in worn grey clothes. She’s carrying a heavy, ornate lantern clutched in both hands, and creeping up behind Jedgar with furious determination on her lined face.

Fox takes a deliberate step back, keeping Jedgar’s eyes on him. “You won't win this,” he says.

Jedgar laughs. “I'm a _Prophet_ ,” he says. “Whatever you think to do, boy, I can _see_. There's nothing you can do that I haven’t already anticipated—”

With both hands and all her strength, the woman swings the lantern. It slams into Jedgar’s skull with a crash that echoes, a meaty thud, and Jedgar crumples, hits, lies still in a spreading pool of blood. The woman staggers, and instantly Fox deactivates Anakin's lightsaber and catches her, bracing her on her feet.

“Ma’am?” he asks, concerned. “Are you all right?”

The woman puts a hand to her head. “He was…unpleasant,” she says with a grimace. “But it’s fading now. A little.”

Fox can feel that, too, and he lets out a slow breath. “Once the Sith Lord is dealt with, it will get better,” he says grimly, not willing to take the lightening of the air at face value. “We should get you to the ship, ma’am.”

“Not yet,” she says firmly, and pulls away. “My son is here.”

Fox takes one look at her face, her eyes, the _feel_ of her like a weight again his skin, and breathes in. “General Skywalker is over there, by the wing,” he says, and when she smiles at him it’s a little like seeing the sun after weeks of darkness.

“Thank you,” she says, and hurries towards the ship. Fox keeps to her heels, attentive to the sounds of a fight from the other end of the hangar, but he’s not about to leave a civilian armed only with a lantern on her own.

Besides, he has Anakin's lightsaber, and no matter how cool it is, Fox is fully aware that it will be of more use in a Jedi's hands.

“Shmi!” the unfamiliar clone says as she rounds the wing in front of Fox. “Are you—”

But he’s cut off by a strangled cry, a wrench of movement. The lightsaber goes flying from Fox’s hand, and Fox has one half-second to lunge, shoving Shmi back a step towards the shiny. He grabs Anakin, hauling him away as the blade ignites, and says, “General, no! She saved me!”

Anakin's breath is ragged in his ear, and his eyes are wide, fixed on his mother. His expression twists, and he staggers, hand coming up to his head as he makes a low, agonized sound. “No,” he rasps. “No, no, she’s like Qui-Gon, I can't—”

Fox hesitates, but— “She doesn’t feel the same way,” he says, and Anakin looks at him. Pauses, and then raises a hand. Knowing what he wants, Fox nods jerkily and hauls off his helmet, refusing to allow himself to be scared, and—

The touch of Anakin's mind is nothing like Merili’s. It’s light, all-encompassing, full of shadows but still brilliant even so. Like this, now, when Fox actually has enough space to pay attention to something beside the pain and the hollowed-out ache, it’s—incredible.

It makes him a terrible person, but Fox can't bring himself to regret that stolen kiss.

To hide it, to cover, Fox closes his eyes, letting Anakin see how Shmi feels. Letting him see the rot that was in Qui-Gon’s being until the moment before he disappeared, and showing him the difference. Feels, like it’s in his own mind, the way Anakin shudders, wants to believe, _fears_.

When he opens his eyes, Anakin is crying, and he leans in, thumping his forehead against Fox’s. It makes Fox’s breath stutter hard in his lungs, but Anakin is already moving, slipping past him and leaving Fox, dazed and unsteady, behind him.

“Mom?” he says, hope and disbelief and pure, aching wonder.

Shmi smiles, brilliant, warm, and reaches for him. “Ani,” she says, and laughs a little, almost in tears. “Oh, my little Ani.”

Anakin's laugh cracks out of his throat, and he lunges, sweeping her up off her feet and spinning her around, clutching her close and burying his face in her hair. “ _Mom_ ,” he repeats, and Fox has to look away, his own throat tight at the sheer joy on Anakin's face.

He _wants,_ distant and nebulous and undefined, but—

He pulls his helmet on and ignores it. They have more important things to focus on.


	40. Chapter 40

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cliffhanger warning again for this chapter, sorry.

“What is _that_?” Ayo demands.

Depa curls her fingers around the back of his seat, trying to keep her breathing steady. The feel of Caleb beside her is a comfort, Ahsoka at her other elbow a boon. Grey at her back would be the last bulwark against the Dark, but—

Ponds, steady and loyal and brave, is there, and that will more than do.

“It’s furthest from the sun, but from the readings it’s a jungle planet,” Clip says with a frown. “How does that even _work_? Especially with that cloud cover.”

“Lightning storms,” Depa says, and reaches out, trying to find Mace's mind in the shadows. There's a flicker, one spark of light, but she loses it again almost immediately, and the unease crawling down her spine grows _teeth_. “A Sith emperor experimented with adjusting the planet’s weather, and that was the result. The heat generated by the storms keeps the planet tropical, even at the edge of the system.”

Caleb blinks, then glances up at her. “You know it, Master?” he asks curiously. He’s not the only one looking.

“Yes,” Depa answers, and reaches up, drawing her hood over her hair. Grim certainty settles, and she says, “It’s called Dromund Kaas. Once, a very long time ago, it was the seat of power for the Sith Empire.”

Ponds’s dark silence says more than words could. He steps up next to her, bracing himself on the back of Clip’s chair, and glances over. Knowing the direction of his thoughts, Depa inclines her head.

“He’s there,” she says softly.

Ponds grimaces. “He always does choose the most interesting spots to put down in,” he says, and Depa manages a crooked smile, knowing it’s true. Mace likes to roll his eyes about Obi-Wan and Anakin's tendency to get into trouble, but he’s just as bad as they are. He just pretends at dignity better.

“There should be a major city just above the equator,” she says, leaning forward to look at the readings. “Or the ruins of one, now.”

“You think they crashed there?” Ahsoka asks, surprised. “It’s a big planet.”

“They're there,” Depa says, certain of it.

There's a moment of startled silence, and then Ayo huffs. “So is that mystery cruiser,” he says. “I'm getting a bunch of bio-signs, too. Not just animals.”

Depa's lightsaber is a heavy weight at her hip, and she tips her chin up. “The Sith emperor’s citadel,” she says. “That’s where they are. Set us down there.”

“Lightning Squadron, brace for landing,” Ponds says sharply, and there's a rush of movement behind them as the troopers arm up and fall in. “Clip, stay with the ship and keep the engines hot. I want this to be an extraction, not a firefight.”

“It may end up being both, Commander.” Depa watches the clouds part around the ship, lightning fracturing across the hull, and—

A tall black spire, stabbing skyward and lit with red like a splattering of blood.

“Kriff,” Razor says from behind Ponds, and his eyes are wide behind his helmet. “What even _is_ that?”

“The Sith's idea of intriguing design,” Depa says dryly, and shifts back. “Ahsoka, Caleb, stay close. There will be traps specifically for Jedi in this place.”

“Yes, Master,” Ahsoka says unhappily. Her eyes are fixed on the citadel, unwavering. “Anakin is down there, I can feel it.”

Ponds looks at her, then at Depa, raising a brow, but Depa has no response. Can't find one, not when all she can feel of Mace's presence is flashes though the darkness. Just moments, not the steady beacon he should be, and it settles like a stone in her stomach. Something is most certainly wrong.

“There,” she says instead, and leans forward, pointing to a wide hangar that opens off the back of the tower. A Coruscanti diplomatic cruiser, red and gleaming, is sitting there already. “That’s where Anakin is. Set us down.”

“You heard the general,” Ponds says grimly. “Ayo, enough of a presence to justify the AT-RTs?”

“Not enough space, given the dimensions of the hangar,” Ayo answers.

Depa thinks she catches a flash of red through the darkness, and she has to swallow. Everything here is _Dark_ , ruthless and devouring, but without the simple, straightforward hunger of Haruun Kal. Haruun Kal at least gave everyone a fair chance. Dromund Kaas just wants to eat them all alive.

Another flicker comes, one instant of Mace's presence behind the veil of shadows, and Depa reaches for it desperately, _grabs_ for it. Feels darkness, and pain, and grief, and certainty, and then he’s slipped through fingers again to vanish into the gloom.

Slowly, deliberately, Depa curls her hand into a fist, breathes in, breathes out. Marshals herself, all too aware of what happened when she fell to the Dark Side, and refuses to become its victim again.

A small hand curls into the edge of her sleeve, and Caleb looks up at her, eyes a little wide but mouth set. “Is Master Windu all right?” he asks quietly.

For a long moment, Depa stares at him, the face of this child in her care. Caleb, in the aftermath of Haruun Kal, in the wake of her fight with Grievous, had felt like a chance at redemption. Had felt like _grace_.

She has every reason in the galaxy, now, not to fall. She just needs to remember that.

“He will be,” she says with perfect faith, and smiles at him, resting her hand on his shoulder. “We’ll save him and then make him treat us to dinner, what do you think?”

Caleb grins. “With dessert?”

“Of course.” Depa winks at him, then turns her eyes back towards the citadel, humor slipping away. It’s not fear that buries it, but—determination.

Mace saved her from herself. For that, for a hundred thousand other things over the years, the very least she can do is return the favor, should it prove to be necessary.

There's a whisper in his head that’s growing, echoing, rebounding, and Mace can't shut it out.

“Interesting,” Palpatine says lowly, and glowing yellow eyes slide over the warblade, lingering on the shifting pattern laid into the metal. “A daring move, Master Windu. You tread so close to the Dark Side, and now you actively invite it to touch you? Perhaps you will be my next apprentice after all.”

“Dooku is losing his charm?” Mace counters, and refuses to let Palpatine see the way he wants to falter, to drop the warblade and leave it, try for his lightsaber again. The cortosis’s effect won't have faded yet, though, and Mace isn't about to face someone as dangerous as the Sith Lord without a weapon of some sort in his hand.

The whisper is a low, furious voice, something heady and dark. It rises in time with the shifting pattern, and Mace can feel the pull of it, the way the blade sinks into every crack within him like the strangling roots of a jungle plant. It’s finding his edges, his weak points, and Mace wants to drop it, to fling it to the side, but—

Just like Vaapad. Just like touching the darkness to win and then coming back to the light. This will simply take more control than normal.

There's power in the sword, though. Heavy, thrumming power that could be addictive if Mace let it. Like catching lightning in his hand, it burns, but it’s intriguing, too. A wellspring, ready to be tapped, the exact kind of thing that could give him the means to defeat Palpatine. Mace can feel it, all the ways he could use the sword. Call the packs of vornskrs hunting outside. Control the hordes of reanimated Sith roaming the city. Call the leviathan from its sleep, even, and leave it to stalk Palpatine through Kaas City, strangled in his own nightmares.

Temptation, Mace thinks, and breathes through it, refusing to be swayed.

“Dooku oversteps himself,” Palpatine says, cruel. “He takes in strays, adopts petty causes. He is a Sith in name but not in nature.”

The highest praise of Dooku that Mace has ever heard. He snorts, and—

Lightning crackles. Mace sets his feet, sets his jaw, and catches it on the blade of the sword. The warblade shudders in his grip, but takes the power, drinks it in, and after a long moment Palpatine drops his hand again, stray threads of lightning scattering around him.

The whispering gets louder, and out of the corner of his eye, Mace can see a shadow moving.

“If you keep discarding apprentices, you're going to run out,” Mace says, and twists sideways around a stabbing thrust from Palpatine’s lightsaber. Sweeps the sword down, turns, rises, and Palpatine doesn’t try to block the blade, but disengages, stepping back far enough to let the blade pass harmlessly. Mace doesn’t hesitate, though; he leaps, lands already lashing out, and Palpatine has to jerk to the side to avoid losing an arm. It’s not enough to make him falter, though, and Mace twists around three abrupt slashes, breathes out—

Along the edge of the room, in a clear line to where Cody is lying, one of the massive stone pillars shifts.

“I do not tolerate failure,” Palpatine says coolly. “And each of my apprentices has failed to do more than hinder the influence of the Jedi on this galaxy. I would see them _destroyed_.”

So easy. It would be so easy to feel angry. About the war, about Qui-Gon, even about the Zabrak Palpatine likely twisted and corrupted and shaped. Mace knew Dooku once, looked up to him as a wise Master, and his fall can't be laid solely at Palpatine’s feet, but—the continuation of it can. He wouldn’t have fallen nearly as far without the Sith Lord’s influence on him.

Mace breathes through the righteous fury, refuses to let it rule him. He _is_ angry, and that won't go away, but he won't let it be his downfall.

Leaping forward, he lets the Force give him speed, twists past the lash of that red blade and swings for the shatterpoint, the weakness in Palpatine’s guard. He’s quick, clearly a master swordsman, but one parry he can't avoid will short out his lightsaber, and then Mace will have the advantage.

Palpatine hisses, falling back, and Mace presses that advantage, lunges, feels the warblade skim Palpatine’s dark cloak and slice open a long rent in it. Palpatine is fast, though; he throws up a hand, and the force that hits Mace is enough to knock him right off his feet, send him tumbling across the floor for an instant. In a heartbeat, Palpatine is moving, lunging, but—

Not for Mace. For _Cody_ , still and unconscious on the ground.

Mace throws himself in front of Cody, driving the warblade up in a gutting move, but Palpatine twists around it, falls back. Unwilling to let up, Mace follows, trying to parry even when Palpatine won't physically block him, trying to push him back—

Hears a stir, slow, pained, and a groan.

The shadow in the corner of his eye in getting darker, and in his hands the warblade _burns_.

“How _interesting_ , Master Windu,” Palpatine says lowly, turning, circling. Mace steels himself, keeping his body between Palpatine and Cody, keeping one fraction of his attention on that looming black column. “That blade—do you know its history?”

“It isn't mine,” Mace says simply, and he doesn’t want it, wouldn’t take it even if he did. It came to Cody, called to him, and Mace having it now is the same as Cody taking up his lightsaber in the tunnels—temporary, spurred by desperation, and done with the full knowledge that they’ll be returned as soon as the disaster ends.

“But you can _feel_ the power of it,” Palpatine goads. “Emperor Vitiate’s own warblade, which once commanded _armies_. With it you could call the undead to you, command the creatures of the Dark Side, crush the Separatists, bring peace back to the galaxy. What a fight that would be, Master Windu. No more of your fellow Jedi dead, no more war. No innocent lives lost when _you_ had your hands on the reins of this war.”

The whispering rush in his ears rises, dark counterpoint to Palpatine’s words. Mace grits his teeth, pressing it back, and watches Palpatine with narrowed eyes. “And you would teach me, of course,” he says flatly.

Palpatine’s smile is thin, pleased. “Of course. I’ve made a long study of that blade, but never dared to wield it myself. But you—you suit it, Master Windu. You are a great warrior, and I would see you rise to even greater heights. The darkness in you longs for freedom, unrestrained by petty rules and traditions.” He chuckles, steps closer. “Without the Jedi, you could rule the galaxy at my side. A warlord, benevolent, _beloved_. No more suffering, Master Windu. No more death.”

“The Sith will only ever lead to destruction.” A flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye makes Mace tense, but he doesn’t turn and look, doesn’t try to face the firming shadow there. Not an illusion, likely, but—inconsequential. Palpatine is the threat right now.

“Ah,” Palpatine says, soft, enticing. “But you care for the commander. You would save him. Without intervention he will be an old, old man in twenty years, unlikely to survive to the full span of a Human life. But I can show you how to stop the rapid aging. You can still save him, Master Windu. He is an enslaved soldier, bred to be cannon fodder and to die quickly, his purpose served. But it doesn’t have to be that way.”

Mace smiles. Just faintly. Just slightly. Palpatine doesn’t _know_. He has no idea what Mace and Plo and Cody have done, what Shaak is arranging on Kamino. Freedom for the clones, and a stop to the rapid aging, and a better Republic in the wake of it.

“No,” he agrees, and tightens his grip on the warblade, feels its intent and hunger surge. “It doesn’t.”

The blade tries to grab him, tries to sink its threads into his soul. With Cody, there was no Force sensitivity to channel it, nothing familiar for it to seize upon. With Mace, the pathways are clear, and its power leaps forward, twisting itself into his veins, winding itself around his bones. It _burns_ , molten metal beneath his skin, but—

There's Darkness. There's also Light beyond it. And between the two, caught halfway, there's a path that Mace has walked a hundred times before.

Dangerous, Mace knows. A step beyond his limits and he’ll fall, dragged down and devoured, left a shell for the warblade to occupy. But Cody is behind him, unconscious, vulnerable. Anakin is behind him, trying so desperately to cling to the light. Before him is the Sith Lord, the cause of this whole war, of so much strife in the galaxy.

The shadow of a man crowned in darkness means nothing when Mace is facing someone who wants to tear the entirety of the Republic apart.

Shifting his grip, Mace straightens, steps forward. He lets the blade dig into him, settle, coil. Prying it out of himself will be a deeply, painfully unpleasant task, but—for later. For now, he takes that surge of strength, that intent, a warrior’s fierce _want_ for a battle, and lets himself feel it. The thrill of a fight, the desire for victory, the _enjoyment_ of facing a dangerous opponent and pitting himself against them, hoping to come out the stronger.

“You assume,” he says, and traces the shatterpoints woven into Palpatine’s being, “that even if I let myself fall, I would allow you to control me.”

Palpatine pauses, and his eyes narrow. “Child,” he says darkly, “you could not hope to beat me.”

Mace snorts, unimpressed. “Hope to,” he repeats. “Maybe not. But I will.”

Palpatine’s expression twists with ugly anger, and he lashes out. Mace catches the lightning on the warblade, watching the figure of a bearded man come clear for just an instant on his periphery, and lets knowledge of the risks sink into his chest. A slip, a moment of wavering, and a shadow of Vitiate will take his body, return to some semblance of life. The Sith Emperor was defeated long ago, but shades of him still linger, contingency plans.

Mace refuses to allow this one a chance.

Setting his jaw, Mace steps forward, bears the lightning back towards its source as it ripples and crackles off the sword. Palpatine snarls, effort showing in the lines of his face, and—

The lighting vanishes, and Mace lunges. Feels the Force grab for him, lifting him off his feet, and doesn’t try to fight it. He lets it fling him back, twists as he’s thrown, and hits the wall feet-first, then flips and drops. Palpatine slips across the space between, too quick to track, and a second lightsaber falls into his free hand, burning crimson as it ignites. Mace ducks it, kicks out high and fast and knocks Palpatine back, then raises the warblade. He almost catches the first ‘saber as it lashes out, but the second drives him back, a quick, vicious strike that just misses his cheek.

Palpatine was holding back before, but this—this is a Sith Lord’s skill.

Another surge of Force grabs Mace as he whirls to the side, flings him back spine-first into the wall with a burst of pain, all the air knocked from his lungs. Mace doesn’t hesitate; he ducks low, throws up the warblade to black another hit, then grabs for the hilt on his belt.

There's no reaction from the crystal, no blade, and Mace curses silently, sidesteps a slash. Lunges, warblade leading, and Palpatine sidesteps in a whirl of dark robes, then lashes out. Mace is gone before the Force can grab him this time, leaps and falls and lands, twisting to his feet. Behind him is the open stretch of the hangar, and beyond it—

Mace can feel all the souls still in Kaas City. Predators and undead alike, all of them reeking of the same Sith magics that are echoed in the warblade, all ready to rise at his command. But—

He won't. He won't use that power, because that’s one step down into darkness without a clear path back up.

With a leap, Palpatine closes the gap, and Mace can _see_ , can see the place where he’s weakest, where one blow will destroy him. Arrogance tangles with skill, and the desire for power twists into hubris, and in Palpatine’s structure that’s the flaw, the weakness. If Mace can reach it, if he can use it, strike it, he’ll be able to do what he told Cody he could.

“Surrender, Master Windu,” Palpatine says, grinning. “Surrender or be destroyed. It would be such a shame to lose a man of your skill. You would fare far better as my apprentice.”

“No,” Mace says, flat, and Palpatine’s mouth curves. He lashes out—

The grip around his throat throws Mace back, lifts him off his feet, and he chokes. Desperately, he tries to call up the concentration to break free, tries to keep his grip on the warblade from loosening, but Palpatine’s grip tightens until it feels like he’s going to crush Mace's throat entirely.

And then, like the wash of sunrise in a dark sky, a familiar presence fills his mind with light and copper and silk, and engines roar. A familiar ship swoops in to hover above them, and the ramp descends. On it, for just a moment, Mace catches a glimpse of a familiar figure standing poised, the star-bright glow of a green lightsaber, and then she’s leaping. Tumbling, twisting, falling, and she lands hard in a crouch, lunges without so much as an instant of hesitation right for Palpatine’s unguarded back.

“Master!” Depa cries, even as Palpatine wrenches around to counter, just managing to bring his lightsabers up in time to catch her blow. The grip on Mace's throat vanishes, and he drops, gasping for breath, and staggers to his feet.

Above them, on the ship’s ramp, three more figures appear. Two just leap, and a moment later Caleb and Ahsoka hit the ground on either side of Mace, while Ponds’s jetpack fires. He lands as the two padawans grab Mace's arms, helping to hold him on his feet, and Mace sees Palpatine turn, sees his eyes lock onto Ponds as he shoves Depa back—

“Commander, turn off all external microphones,” he says sharply. “Pass on the order on. _Now_.”

Ponds hits a button on his comm without so much as pausing, then nods. Mace breathes out a silent sigh of relief, then nods back.

“The Sith Lord can control troopers with an order,” he tells Caleb and Ahsoka. “Be careful.”

Caleb pales, but doesn’t waver. “Are you all right?” he asks, even as grapple lines drop from the ship. Lightning Squadron slides down, quickly falling in, and Mace can't help but give them a tired smile. Signals them to head for the main door and check for more enemies with his free hand, and Razor nods, flashing an acknowledgement in return. He takes off at a jog, and Mace takes a breath, then raises the warblade.

“Anakin is by the other cruiser,” he tells Ahsoka. “Caleb, Commander Cody was waking up. Get him aboard that ship.”

“Yes, Master,” Caleb says, but Ahsoka is already running. Caleb rolls his eyes a little, takes one more look at Depa, and then hurries for Cody.

The warblade still burns in Mace's hand, and Depa is quick and cunning and pushing Palpatine back, but—

 _Cover_ , Mace signs, and Ponds nods, raising his blaster. It’s enough, and Mace lunges low and fast, coming up behind Palpatine and striking out hard. Palpatine turns, automatic, quick, slashes a lightsaber out—

It dies with a hissing crackle as it hits the cortosis, and Depa laughs.

“And here I was worried, Master!” she says merrily, ducking low as Palpatine kicks out, then rising swift and ruthless. The flash of her sword is all grace, tightly leashed, Soresu rather than Vaapad, but familiar. Mace fills in the gaps, pushes close in quick jabs while she blocks Palpatine’s remaining lightsaber, and fighting beside Depa is as familiar as breathing, a pattern Mace would know in his sleep. She sees that his reach is shortened by the wounded shoulder, and makes up for it, leaving him openings to get behind Palpatine, to harry him until he falls back, and Mace takes them.

Together they push him back, drive him towards the edge of the hangar, and the surge of victory is exhilaration, intent. Mace can feel the shadows, but—

Beyond them, Depa is nothing but light.

“It took you long enough,” he tells his padawan, and she rolls her eyes at him in a way she definitely learned from someone else, because it’s certainly not one of Mace's expressions.

“I thought you’d appreciate time for a honeymoon,” she retorts, circling Palpatine. He steps back, and Mace takes the opening, lunges in only to have Palpatine kick him in the chest and knock him back, foot just missing the stab from the warblade.

“This is revenge for me not inviting you to my wedding, isn't it?” Mace asks, staggering back upright, and Depa laughs.

“Only a little,” she says cheerfully, though her eyes don’t shift from Palpatine. “But it seems as though you’ve found a way to keep yourself occupied, Master. Chancellor, this is a new look for you.”

“Master Billaba, an unexpected pleasure,” Palpatine returns, as polite as if they were meeting in the halls of the Senate Building. “You're rather far from where you should be.”

Mace knows Depa, can feel the threads of righteous anger twisting through her, the way she acknowledges them and then lets them go. “I believe I'm exactly where I should be,” she counters. “Two High Council members to see to your arrest seems sufficient.”

Palpatine smiles thinly. “Overconfident. As to be expected of a Jedi. But your presence is a boon, Master Billaba. Your death will push your Master to the Dark Side quite well. Whether Anakin falls today or not, I _will_ leave Dromund Kaas with a new apprentice.”

Depa's expression goes flinty. “You’ll leave Dromund Kaas in chains,” she says, “and with nothing else. Mace?”

“Anakin won't fall,” Mace agrees, and steps closer, watching Palpatine’s narrowed gaze flicker to him and then back to Depa. “Surrender, Chancellor.”

“To _you_?” Palpatine asks contemptuously, almost amused. “To the _Jedi_? I think not.”

Mace catches the movement half a second too late. Palpatine spins, throwing a hand out, and Depa yelps as she’s hurled back across the hangar, right towards the edge of the building. They're too low for the fall to be dangerous to a Jedi, but Mace still lunges, ducks the sweep of Palpatine’s lightsaber and drops low, lashing out with a foot at his ankles. Palpatine leaps, flips, flings Mace back with a hard shove of the Force and then follows, blurring-quick as he drives three hard strikes right at Mace's bad shoulder. Mace falls back, retreats even as he tries to parry, but Palpatine is too fast, and Mace can't get the warblade up in time.

And then, with a streak of blue, a blaster bolt comes flying right at Palpatine’s head.

Palpatine redirects it with a flick of his hand, then turns. Grabs Mace with the Force when he tries to lunge, and casually flings him back into the wall shoulder-first. Mace hits so hard that the word greys out for a moment, and he tumbles to the ground on his knees, heartbeat suddenly too loud in his ears. Over it, he hears, “Commander Ponds. Execute Order 66.”

Mace raises his head, holding his breath. Sees Ponds turn his head towards him, grip on his blaster tightening for half an instant before he lefts it—

And takes another shot, right at Palpatine’s chest.

The surge of tangled relief and victory pushes Mace back to his feet, and he sees Depa on Palpatine’s other side just pulling herself back up onto the platform. Meets her eyes across the room, and she smiles grimly, reigniting her lightsaber as she advances. “More tricks, Sith Lord?” she calls, and Palpatine turns to face her, giving Mace his back. “What will you have when all of those run out, I wonder.”

“Skill, child,” Palpatine says, patronizing. “Would you like to test me?” He glances sideways, towards Ponds, and then to Mace. “Undermining the orders of the Galactic Senate, Master Windu? You tread close to treason here.”

“You are not the Senate,” Mace says quietly. “Not yet. Not ever, when we drag your identity out into the light, Lord Sidious.”

“ _If_ you can manage to leave this planet, my child, you will find no one will believe you,” Palpatine says, and it’s a smug thing, dripping superiority. “Two Jedi, murdering the Chancellor? You will be taken away as traitors, and Dooku will continue the war in my stead, to bring the Republic to its knees.”

Mace remembers that moment in the arena on Geonosis, the sight of Dooku, the shatterpoint of the whole war bound up in his bones. He could have killed Dooku then, but he’d fought Jango instead, weakened by sentimentality and the sight of a man who had once been a close friend.

“I think,” he says evenly, “that I would much rather take my chances with Dooku.”

“A pity you won't get the chance,” Palpatine retorts, and lightning crackles from his fingertips as he flings out a hand. Not at Mace. Not even at Depa.

At Caleb, just hauling Cody's arm over his shoulders to drag him back to his feet.


	41. Chapter 41

Depa's cry is a terrible, full-throated thing. Faster than Mace has ever seen her move, she lunges, Vaapad steps into a high leap and then a twisting fall. She tumbles down, lands right between Caleb and Palpatine with no time to block the blow.

The lightning hits her, and she goes down, lightsaber clattering from her fingers and sliding into the darkness.

In the same moment, Mace swings the warblade with both hands and all his strength, and cuts right through Palpatine’s arm at the elbow.

Palpatine screams, recoiling, and flings up his remaining hand. The blow slams Mace back, sends him tumbling across the floor, and it _hurts_ , his vision is darkened and swimming with points of light that shouldn’t be there, but—

But.

Grimly, he pushes back to his feet, rises and reaches for his lightsaber to test the blade again, and doesn’t let himself dwell on the wrench of disappointment when it’s still dead.

“Master!” Caleb stumbles to his knees, grabbing Depa's shoulder even as he tries to balance Cody, and Mace puts himself between Palpatine and them, plants his feet and gives Palpatine a flat, steady look even though he’s lightheaded and wavering.

“Surrender,” he says, and Palpatine laughs, just a little more ragged than it was before as he clutches the stump of his arm to his chest.

“You are losing, Master Windu,” he says, and the curve of that greedy smile makes it a taunt. “How long will you be able to save all of them?”

Behind him, Mace can hear Depa's groan, pained and rough, Caleb's desperate whisper. Can hear Cody, can _feel_ him, a presence in his head that’s slowly piecing itself back together.

He closes his eyes. Breathes in, breathes out.

“For as long as I need to,” he says, and looks at Palpatine again, meeting his eyes. Meeting his challenge, because he’s never been one to give in, regardless of what’s on the line, but—this matters more than everything else, and he isn't about to waver.

And then, like a dark tide, the clarity of Cody's thoughts starts to slide back into something cold.

“Caleb! Let go of Cody!” Mace orders, and turns. Feels the crackle of lightning rise again, and _shoves_.

Depa, still trembling and dazed, knows the warning in his voice, even if she doesn’t understand the reason. She heaves herself up from the ground and grabs her padawan, shoves Cody out of his grip just as Mace's Force-push catches them, and lets the momentum carry them all the way across the room. Ponds runs to help them as they tumble to a stop, and Mace has to make a decision, has to pick Cody or Palpatine’s lightning to face, and—

He turns, catches the lightning on the warblade, and hears Cody pull himself to his feet with a groan.

“Ah, Commander,” Palpatine says, silkily pleased, and steps forward, making Mace grit his teeth as the force of the lightning redoubles. “You have your orders. Obey them.”

“Cody,” Mace says, able to feel him struggling. The command is still there, ringing in his head, and whatever it controls is practically overwhelming. Mace’s pain disrupted it, gave him a moment, but it’s fading. The mention of orders makes everything go dim, and Cody wavers.

He’s fighting. Mace can feel that. Clinging to reason, to logic, to memory, and Mace reaches down the bond, letting the feeling of Cody's shoulder braced against his in the darkness come clear. Thinks of Cody's hand keeping him grounded when reality twisted, and _holds_.

“Mace,” Cody says, rasping in his throat. Takes a step, like he doesn’t know which way to move, and—

“Ah,” Palpatine says, delighted, and the crackle of his lightning dies away. The sudden relieving of pressure makes Mace stagger, but he just manages to stay on his feet. “ _Sentiment_ , Master Windu? Breaking the tenants of the Order? Perhaps it is a shorter path to making you my apprentice than I thought.”

“I've broken nothing,” Mace says. “Love is not the same as possession. Though I'm not surprised a Sith wouldn’t understand that.”

Palpatine scowls. Before Mace can dodge it, an invisible hand locks around his throat, driving him to his knees as he chokes, and the warblade slips, almost falling from his grasp. Behind him, Cody wavers, a footfall loud in the echoing room. And—

“Master!” a voice shouts.

Not Depa. Anakin.

The hold on his throat vanishes as Palpatine spins to face the new threat. Mace jerks to the side, letting Cody's lunge miss him by inches. He ducks around a punch, leaps back only to have Cody sweep his feet out from under him. There's no chance to recover, and Mace hits the ground on his back, but the hum of a lightsaber igniting is an unlooked-for relief. Anakin hurtles past him, blue blade burning, and meets Palpatine with a crash of blades and a furious cry, driving him back before he can take advantage. In the same moment, a commander in the Guard’s red tackles Cody full-on, slamming him down into the stone and rolling over him, pinning him mercilessly. Cody snarls, wrenches, twists, and he and the Guardsman tumble over, grappling desperately.

Mace rolls up onto one elbow, raises a hand, tries to grasp for the clouded thoughts he should be able to reach easily, and—

With a heave, Cody flings the other commander off of him, sends him rolling across the hangar floor to slam into the wall with a sharp cry.

Blade to blade with Palpatine, Anakin jerks. “Fox!” he cries, looking like he wants to turn, but even that much distraction is too much. Palpatine lashes out, disengaging their blades as he kicks Anakin square in the chest, and laughs as Anakin goes flying back.

“My boy, I still have such high hopes for you,” he says, smirking. “A deep, personal betrayal and a few months alone on Dromund Kaas should be more than enough to help you see things my way.” Turning he looks right at the commander pulling himself to his feet, then raises his hand. “Commander Fox. Execute Order 66. Anakin Skywalker is a traitor to the Republic, so _deal_ with him.”

Fox _jerks_. Like he was just hit with a blaster bolt, he collapses forward onto his knees, grabbing his head, and the whine that breaks from his throat is high and desperate and pained. Mace's breath catches, and he reaches—

Cody hits him in a rush, grabs his wrist, grabs his shoulder where the warblade cut through. He topples him, pins him to the ground, and Mace loses all of his breath on a cry , loses seconds as the world goes black.

Fingers close around his throat, tangible and real, and he looks up into Cody's face, his dark expression, and thinks of all the ways he could save himself without hurting Cody.

There aren’t nearly as many as he would like.

From the darkest parts of himself, from the sword in his hand, from the shadow at the edge of his vision, there's a whisper. He could bring the warblade up, swing, and there wouldn’t be a threat. He could get up and go help Anakin and defeat the Sith Lord. All it would take—

Opening his hand, Mace lets the warblade drop. Banishes the whisper, the shadow, and he can still feel those threads of darkness within himself, twisting, devouring, but he ignores them. Curls his hands over Cody's on his throat, practically lacing their fingers, and lets their wedding rings clink together.

“Cody,” he says, and meets Cody's dark, conflicted eyes. “I refuse to hurt you.”

Cody's expression twists, and he closes his eyes. Fighting, even now, and his breath hitches as his muscles go stiff and tense. He curls forward, bending over Mace, and his hands tighten but he’s still not squeezing.

“Traitor,” he whispers, but it’s regret and pain rather than the cold certainty of before, and Mace breathes out. He slides a hand up Cody's arm, over battered plastoid to reach his shoulder, feels Cody's full-body twitch and freezes.

“Cody?” he asks quietly.

“Don’t move. Don’t _fight_ ,” Cody says, strangled. “Just for a second.”

They don’t _have_ a second—Mace can hear Anakin fighting, can feel Depa's pain as she struggles to rise. Can feel Ponds’s indecision and reluctance as he wavers between guarding Caleb and Depa and taking aim at Cody. But—

He touches the bond, half-buried in darkness. Drags it up, along with the memory of that first real kiss in the tunnels, the way Cody carried him away from the leviathan, led him through the illusions and became his solid ground. Stays still, but tries to show, beyond words, that there's still a light beneath all the shadows.

Cody's hand slips from his throat, turns. He catches Mace's hand, not a friendly hold—tight fingers around his wrist, like he’s about to drag Mace's arm around and pin it. But he slides his thumb up, presses hard against the twisted wire of Mace's ring, and drops his forehead against Mace's with a ragged breath.

From this close, it’s easy to see the strain in his face, the pain, to feel the tension in his form. Holding himself back, Mace thinks, and lets his hand slide up again, slow and careful, and rests his fingers over the nape of Cody's neck.

“I can put you to sleep again,” he says, and Cody shudders, expression twisting.

“I'm—trying,” he manages. “I _want_ to, but I keep forgetting that. You're—you're a traitor but I don’t—” His voice breaks, and he tips his head down, kisses Mace hard and desperate, and Mace drags him into it, fits their mouths together and tilts his head to give Cody room to deepen it, feels the hand around his throat drop to fist in his robes instead—

Thinks of the leviathan, and the illusions, and using Cody's eyes in the darkness.

Pulling his mouth away, he twists his fingers into Cody's, grips him tightly. “Use my mind,” he says, and Cody gasps out a breath against his lips, digs his fingers into Mace's skin. Mace feels the first clumsy brush at the bond, the desperate way Cody finds the edges of his thoughts and latches on, and—

It’s foolish. It’s reckless. But it will _help_ , so Mace drops his shields completely and drags Cody into another kiss, letting him into his head in a way he hasn’t let anyone before, even Depa. Nothing hidden, everything laid bare, and there are things Mace is ashamed of, things he regrets, things he struggles with every day, but—

They're things he knows how to ask for help with, things he’s faced on his own. Nothing secret, nothing hidden, and he lets Cody fall into his mind until the beating tide of whatever is controlling _him_ retreats into an insistent but ignorable tug.

It feels strange, foreign to have someone else’s consciousness resting so close to his own, but. Mace breathes in, feels Cody breathe out, perfect awareness of each other that settles like a second skin, and finds with a start that it doesn’t feel _wrong_.

Cody pulls away with a sound of terrible, gutting relief, and he drops his forehead against Mace's for a moment, then sits back. Drags Mace's hand up, pressing a messy, open-mouthed kiss to his ring, and opens his eyes, holding Mace's gaze.

He’s back. All of him.

“There you are,” Mace says, and smiles.

Cody loosens his grip on Mace's wrist, lets go. Brushes his thumb across the curve of Mace's mouth, expression aching and soft, and says, “If you scratched my warblade I'm going to be very mad at you.”

Mace snorts, and when Cody slides off of him, he sits up carefully, head spinning. “Yes,” he says dryly, “my shoulder likely scratched it quite a lot.”

Cody's mouth twists, but he grabs the warblade, grabs Mace. Hauls him up, an arm around his waist, and braces him on his feet. “I don’t know,” he says. “Given how hard your head is, I thought I’d check.”

“Maybe _I_ should be the one asking for that divorce,” Mace retorts, but reaches for his lightsaber again, willing to hope.

This time when he presses the button, the purple blade hums to life, and it feels like regaining an old friend.

“If you want me to believe that, maybe try actually knocking me out next time I'm trying to kill you,” Cody says, and his voice is just a little hoarse, his arm around Mace's waist just a little too tight.

“I told you,” Mace returns, quiet. “I refuse to hurt you.”

Cody turns his head, rests his forehead against Mace's temple, and then says, feeling Mace's worry, “I'm fine. It…helps.”

Another mind’s patterns over his own mind’s, blocking out whatever Palpatine is using. Mace breathes out, slow, and lets himself feel relief, even through the worry. “Good,” he says.

Cody smiles, just faintly. “The Sith Lord?” he asks.

Mace grimaces. “Yes,” he agrees, and takes a step away, finding his balance even as his vision swims with dark spots around the edges. Doesn’t have to say anything else, because he can feel Cody's intentions as if they're his own, knows exactly how to move to balance him and knows it goes both ways.

And then, soft, there's a step behind them.

Mace turns his head, and Cody shifts, ready to swing, but—not a threat this time, and Mace knows that before he even sees the approaching figure.

“Let me help,” Shmi says quietly, and she’s still holding the lantern, bloody now. Still has a look on her face that’s the same as when she took Fives's blaster and shot the vornskr. Determined, practical, unhesitating. But—

She smiles, and it’s the reckless edge of Anakin's in the middle of a firefight, finally finding a plan. “I don’t think he’ll see me coming.”

Mace looks over at Cody, finds him already looking back. Raises a brow, and gets a curve of a smirk in return.

“We can work with that,” Cody agrees.

It feels like Merili. Like Merili with her claws in his brain, or red-hot pokers, or a blaster wound where no wound should be able to reach. Fox wants to scream, wants to claw his head open and get at the point of pain inside of it, wants to tear things out and find the source, but he _can't_.

Palpatine’s order is ringing in his head, resounding, but it hasn’t settled. He can _fight_ it. He doesn’t have to give in.

“Fox!”

There's a thump, loud in his ears. Anakin hits the ground on one knee right beside him, dragging his helmet off, and the touch of his hand washes something cool and soothing through Fox’s head, easing the pain enough that he can _think_. He groans, slumping forward, and Anakin makes a sharp sound, getting an arm around his chest. The slip of his hand off bare skin brings the pain back, but—eased. Not as sharp, and Fox digs his fingers into Anakin's thigh, hears steps approaching but can't quite force himself to lift his head.

“Commander, I gave you an order,” Palpatine says, and his voice _grates_. “Execute Order 66.”

It’s like a lance driven through Fox’s skull, one sudden burst of agony. He gasps, too winded to even make a sound, and feels something _tear_ somewhere it definitely shouldn’t.

Hot, wet, and copper-sharp, he can feel blood dripping from his nose, splattering bright across the stone.

“What are you _doing_ to him?” Anakin snarls, and in an instant there's a body right in front of Fox, the hum of a familiar lightsaber washing blue streaks across his armor. The ache redoubles, and Fox can hardly breath through it, can't manage to make his eyes focus, but—

There's something on the ground, just beyond him. Something metal that catches the light, and it’s out of reach but if Fox could make himself move, if he could get there—

Cody. There's something wrong with Cody. He has General Windu on the ground, hands around his throat, and he’s not letting go.

Order 66, Fox thinks, even as the shadows shift violently. A red blade meets Anakin's, and Anakin is good but Palpatine is faster, more ruthless, more _practiced_. Fox doesn’t need to be an expert in lightsaber combat to know that. Anakin's Djem So is slower, less aggressive, at a disadvantage against a Sith Lord Palpatine’s age.

His head hurts. He can't think clearly.

Anakin stumbles.

Alarm rises, sharp-hot in Fox’s chest, and he grits his teeth, _moves_. Forces himself forward, lunging right toward the shine of metal, because Anakin is faltering, falling in the face of Palpatine’s vicious, unpredictable strikes. Anakin is _losing_ , and if he loses he’s going to die, or fall to the Dark Side, and Fox can't huddle on the ground like a cowardly, sniveling _child_ and let that happen.

His fingers close around smooth metal, and this isn't as familiar, takes him a moment, but—

His thumb settles over the button, and glowing green ignites.

For a moment, the color is bewildering, _wrong_. Fox staggers a step, trying to think why, trying to remember, but a cry distracts him. He lifts his head, blood dripping down his chin, and finds Anakin thrown back, slamming into the wall and crumpling at the base of it. Palpatine is following, red lightsaber in his remaining hand, grin wide and thin-lipped and savagely satisfied as Anakin struggles to catch his breath.

“A poor showing, my boy,” he says, and deactivates the lightsaber, lets it disappear up his sleeve in favor of sparks of lightning that twist around his fingers. “I'm rather disappointed, I’ll admit. This, from the Chosen One? The Dark Side would serve you far better.”

“I'm a _Jedi_ ,” Anakin snarls, wounded, furious.

Palpatine laughs. “You are no Jedi, Anakin Skywalker. You have all the makings of a Sith Lord more powerful than this galaxy has ever—”

A step, another. Hands on the hilt, lightsaber up over his head and angled back. One foot down, then the other, and it’s as familiar as taking aim with a blaster to bring the blade down in one hard strike, aimed right at Palpatine’s head.

There's one half-second space where Anakin's eyes widen, and Fox can _feel_ his surprise, a wash of yellow against the blue of his being.

Then Palpatine turns, too fast for anything Human, and his red blade strikes General Billaba’s with a shattering force that vibrates down Fox’s arms.

It’s enough. In the instant Palpatine is distracted, Anakin lunges to his feet, lightsaber leading. Thrusts forward, right at Palpatine’s back, and Palpatine has to leap back to counter. Fox sees the opening, though, doesn’t hesitate; as Palpatine sends Anakin reeling back with three blindingly quick, hard strikes, he lunges, and Palpatine turns. His lightsaber sweeps out, but Fox twists his own blade around to counter, feels the next step like he’s known it his whole life. A smooth half-turn and he shifts, rises, turns the parry into a counterstrike, and forces Palpatine back as Anakin leaps to rejoin the fight.

It feels natural to fall back as Anakin passes him, to duck around to the side to where Fox already knows there's going to be an opening. To step into the gap as easily as filling the line in a firefight, and with just as much familiarity. This is normal. This is _right_.

The green blade strikes red, and Palpatine snarls, “Commander Fox! Execute Order 66!”

It hurts. It _hurts_. But Anakin grabs him as he staggers, hand under his elbow, body braced against his own, and Fox steadies. Doesn’t think about Anakin's breath against his ear, but straightens his spine and looks Palpatine dead in the eye.

 _Kill the traitors_ , something in the back of his head whispers.

 _I'm trying_ , Fox tells it, and bares his teeth at the Chancellor.

“Go to hell, sir,” he snarls.

Anakin laughs, wild and reckless, and leaps. He flips right over Palpatine’s head, and Fox knows the strike, knows the complement. He goes low, aiming for Palpatine’s legs, and—

A force like a vast hand picks him up and _throws_ him, hurling him back into the wall with a crack of his skull against stone that makes him lose a handful of seconds to blackness.

When he manages to force his eyes open again, Anakin is falling.

“ _No_ ,” Fox snarls, and scrambles to his feet. The lightsaber seems to leap to his hand, and in an instant he’s back in the fight, throwing himself in front of Anakin to meet the red blade as it descends. Palpatine is too quick, though; he twists out from under Fox’s blow, lashes out in a hard kick that knocks Fox back, and follows with a sweep of his lightsaber that burns red across Fox’s sight, too fast to follow.

It knocks the green blade aside, snaps forward, sinks into his side, and Fox can't _breathe_.

“Fox!” Anakin bellows, but Fox can't turn, can't look, can't care. Can only stare into Palpatine’s dark, furious, hateful eyes and know that for all of Palpatine’s skill, for all his age and status, he _missed_.

He was aiming to kill.

“A defective clone,” Palpatine says, politely dismayed. “I suppose there must be one in every legion.”

Fox staggers, the lightsaber sliding out of his body with a hiss of cauterized flesh. He almost can't feel it, the pain a strange-bright wash, but distant. Tugging, rather than consuming.

His legs fold of their own volition, and he can't catch himself in time.

“ _Fox_!”

Arms grab him, haul him up, and Fox gasps as the air is jolted back into his lungs. Lets the breath out on a wavering cry as the furious pain hits him, as Anakin's panic comes clear, and he grabs for skin, for Anakin's arms around him, thinks of the moment after Merili’s death and wants to laugh.

Pathetic. He can't even manage what he was created to do. Now he’s going to get his Jedi killed.

“You can save him, my boy,” Palpatine says kindly. “The Dark Side can restore life to the dying. Simply let yourself _feel_ , Anakin.”

There's a strangled breath against Fox’s hair, a tightening of Anakin's arms. “I _do_ feel,” Anakin snaps. “I feel, and I'm a Jedi, and I'm not going to turn to the Dark Side! You _killed_ him!”

Fox wants to protest that he’s not dead yet, but he can't quite find the breath to do it.

Palpatine stares at him for a long moment, smile unwavering. “Well,” he says. “We’ll see how long your stubbornness will last against your grief. You always have been a practical boy, Anakin.”

“Don’t talk like you know me! You're a Sith, and I'm a Jedi!” Anakin jerks like he wants to rise, but he stays where he is, clutching Fox to him. Fox turns his head, still trying to get enough air in his lungs, but fingers card through his hair, hold him still. It’s warm.

The pain is better. Fading, now. Or maybe that’s a side effect of dying, though Fox didn’t think he was.

“I _trusted_ you,” Anakin says, furious, _aching_ , and Palpatine laughs.

“I'm no less trustworthy than I was before you knew, my boy,” he says. “I only want to help you, Anakin. You have a destiny that you will never reach as a Jedi, and I would see you rise to heights you could never imagine. Vast power, power over life itself—yours for the taking.”

“ _No_ ,” Anakin says, and it cracks. “No, that’s not the Jedi way. I won't turn my back on the Jedi.”

“The Jedi will turn their backs on you!” Palpatine takes a step forward, and Fox looks for General Billaba’s lightsaber, sees it on the ground, unlit. Wants to reach for it—

The hilt shifts. Just faintly. Just _slightly_ , but it rolls towards him, and the motion is unmistakable.

“Seeing as you just tried to force an innocent man into murdering Anakin, maybe he should take your accusations as something less than absolute truth,” a voice says dryly, and Fox looks up.

General Windu. General Windu with his purple lightsaber ignited, Cody at his elbow carrying a long sword with a shimmering blade. The general looks like he’s been through some kind of gladiator’s arena and just barely come out the victor, his robes ripped and bloodstained, breath coming hard, but he’s standing. He’s standing and he looks _deadly_ , and Fox can't help a crooked, vicious smile as he drops his head back against Anakin's shoulder.

“Thanks,” Anakin says, a little dry. “I definitely wouldn’t have figured that out on my own, Master Windu.”

Windu raises one brow. “I wasn’t sure how many concussions you’d gotten since we separated,” he says, perfectly mild. “My apologies.”

Anakin pulls a face, but Fox can feel his relief, the immediate way some of the tension shakes out of his chest. “None, for your information,” he says, and takes a breath, looking up at Palpatine. Fox turns his head, and he can see Anakin's expression settle into something belligerent, _furious_. “Chancellor? Fox had the best answer. Go to _hell_.”

Fox’s laugh is soundless, hitching, but it’s there. He grips Anakin's wrist, and for a moment it feels like there’s no pain at all, nothing to hold him back. Palpatine is facing Windu and Cody, and Fox's men are all alive and getting help, and Anakin is steady, strong, unwavering.

Fox turns his head, looking back at General Billaba’s lightsaber.

Breathes in, breathes out, and would swear on the Force that he sees it roll towards him just an inch.


	42. Chapter 42

This is more than a bond, Cody knows.

Whatever Mace did, it’s probably something ill-advised, objectionable to the Council at large, and desperate, because it’s _deep_. Cody can feel Mace's heartbeat in his own veins, slow and steady, strong. There's a weight like Mace is standing next to him, even when he’s paces away, and Cody can _feel_ the constant stream of thought and intent and almost-action that drifts beneath the surface of his mind, recognizable as not his own but still perfectly familiar.

If the other bond was a tether in the darkness, this is sharing a soul, and Cody wants to be unnerved, but—

But he can finally look at his husband and not feel the sick-cold twist of _traitor_ in his bones, and for that, he’s willing to bear with any amount of strangeness.

The warblade hums in his grip, as familiar as an old friend and ten times as welcome, and Cody carefully keeps his distance, hangs back at Mace's shoulder as he steps forward. Palpatine is watching them, and the feeling of his eyes on him makes Cody's skin crawl, but he doesn’t let himself flinch. Doesn’t waver, doesn’t falter, just keeps his gaze on the Sith Lord and his attention on the quicksilver, deep-water flow of Mace's thoughts.

When this is over, the galaxy owes them the longest, most relaxing vacation that anyone has ever had, Cody thinks, and feels the bright spark of Mace's amusement, the tired weight of his agreement. Can feel his pain, too, a low-burning pulse that drags his thoughts down with every movement, but it’s buried, ignored for now. Mace's mind is focused, centered, but—at some point all of this is going to come due.

Mace's warm reassurance eddies around him, touched with an amused _later but not now_ , and Cody sends him an eye-roll, just because. Obi-Wan is bad enough. If he has to take that from his husband, too, he’s going to tie him to a bed, and not in a fun way.

Humor flickers, but thankfully Mace doesn’t follow that with anything more distracting, just watches Palpatine turn to follow him as he shifts, and says quietly, “You have one more chance to surrender, Chancellor.”

Palpatine chuckles, and it’s a kindly, grandfatherly sound that makes Anakin, still curled over Fox, stiffen and grimace. Cody can't image the kick in the balls that is finding out that a close, beloved mentor is actually the man who engineered every hardship in your life, and he doesn’t envy Anakin, but—another thing to deal with later. When Fox isn't fading, and Mace isn't ever so faintly unsteady on his feet, and General Billaba isn't shaking as she pulls herself back up to standing, an arm over Ponds’s shoulders and one hand braced on Caleb's.

“Surrender?” Palpatine asks, amused. “Why would I surrender when I'm _winning_ , Master Windu?”

Behind them, perfectly timed, the cruiser’s engines rumble to life, and Cody grins.

“Because maybe you're not winning after all,” he says, and when Palpatine flicks a dismissive glance at him, he lets it roll right off of him. Palpatine thought he could control Cody, too, and that didn’t work out so well. Ignoring him won't, either.

“Master!” Ahsoka shouts, and a moment later she’s dropping into a ready crouch right in front of Anakin, lightsaber ignited. “Are you okay?”

“Fine, Snips,” Anakin says, and he gives her a quick, strained smile. “Where’s Kix?”

“On the ship,” Ahsoka tells him, and flicks a worried glance at Fox. “Should I—?”

“I think not.” Palpatine steps forward, and Mace tenses. Cody senses the calculation of his first move, the way he shifts to best put himself in between Ahsoka and the threat, and moves to balance the change, stepping sideways until he has a clear shot at Palpatine’s remaining hand. Mace and General Billaba already shorted out one, and if he can manage to get to the other, force Palpatine to parry or _something_ , they can at least remove that much of an advantage from Palpatine’s skillset.

Palpatine glances at him again, at the warblade in his hands, and his eyes narrow.

“Anakin, get to the ship,” Mace says curtly. “Ahsoka, help him. Cody and I will take care of things.”

“With all due respect, Master Windu, you don’t look like you could take care of a half-dead bantha right now,” Ahsoka says frankly, and Anakin groans. Her expression shifts into something defensive, and she protests, “I said no offense!”

Mace just snorts. “You will be brought before the Senate,” he tells Palpatine. “Your reign is over.”

Palpatine chuckles. “Hardly,” he says, perfectly unconcerned. “How many lives will you throw away trying to beat me, Master Windu? How many do you have to spare?”

Mace doesn’t answer, grip tightening on his lightsaber, but Cody can feel the flicker of his thoughts, the star-bright acceptance and peaceful resignation.

If someone’s going to die to stop Palpatine, Mace plans to be the one, and Cody isn't about to allow that. Not ever. Duty and self-sacrifice are one thing, but—

Not now. Not here. Not after everything.

He shifts, feels Mace's sudden sharp attention, but isn't about to let it stop him. Offers reassurance, and his own grim determination, and says, “We don’t need to throw them away. You're done.”

Palpatine’s gaze flickers back to him, and after a long moment, he smiles thinly. “Commander. I don’t know how you're managing to resist the chip, but rest assured I will see to it that you remember yourself shortly.”

Bile climbs the back of Cody's throat, and he can almost feel Mace's neck under his hands, so fragile. Mace's pulse fluttered against his fingertips, and one moment of too much pressure, one sharp twist, and Cody could have ended him. Could have ended _everything_ , and the thought clogs his lungs, aches like a blade through his chest.

Remember himself. Like that’s what he was made for, to be a Jedi-killer. Cody grits his teeth, tightens his grip on the warblade, and thinks, bloody-sharp and reckless, _I refuse_.

“If that’s supposed to make me _not_ want to kill you,” he says flatly, “I think it failed.”

“It won't matter,” Palpatine says cruelly. “Your stubbornness will give way soon enough. Order 66 will be executed as planned. Across the galaxy, I think. It’s rather ahead of my schedule, but a galaxy without Jedi is worth a disruption of my plans.”

Cody doesn’t answer, but—the image is in his head. Millions of clones, thousands of Jedi who trust them, give them their backs. One order, and just like Cody the clones will turn on them.

Mace makes a low, soft sound of amusement, and his steps are steady as he circles Palpatine, falling in on his far side with his lightsaber held in one hand. “As long as you're on Dromund Kaas, there's no way to pass the order on. You’ve tied your own hands by coming here, Chancellor.”

There's no visible reaction, but there's no answer, either. Cody snorts, willing to take that as victory enough to start with, especially with Fives and the others on the ship, ready to leave. “I bet those Prophets aren’t looking nearly as infallible right now,” he says, because he saw the bastard’s boasts through Mace, and he can guess why Palpatine was here on the planet to begin with. Just a little more power, a little more certainty. This time, it just happened to backfire.

“No, but you are looking quite reckless, all of you,” Palpatine says, and there's an edge of danger to his voice that makes Cody's skin prickle. He steps back—

It feels like a black mist, curling up around their feet. Like it’s hard to breathe, or the world suddenly has _teeth_ and they’re unwelcome intruders. It makes Cody rock back on his heels, makes Mace stagger and stumble, falling to one knee, and Ahsoka gives a startled, pained cry as she reels back. Instantly, Palpatine turns, and that white-hot lightning leaps from his fingertips again, surging right for Mace.

Mace jerks his lightsaber up, catching it, but he’s only using one hand, has the other limp by his side, and Cody can see the strain carving lines into his face, the way he struggles to hold. Fury flickers, sharper than normal, and Cody lunges low and fast, sees Palpatine twist but sidesteps the slashing blow of that red lightsaber as it hums to life. The warblade slices down to meet it instead, but Palpatine is too quick, leaps back and kicks Ahsoka away as she lunges for him with a cry. The moment is enough to let Mace stagger to his feet, jaw set, and he steps into the gap before Palpatine can turn back to Cody.

It’s an opening Cody isn't about to miss. He brings the warblade down hard, aimed right at Palpatine’s spine, and even a Sith Lord can't dodge entirely from that angle.

The blade cuts deep through cloth and flesh, just as easily as it did the war worm’s armor. Palpatine screams, staggering, and throws up a hand. The blast of concussive force feels like standing too close to a thermal detonator, and has about the same effect; Cody gets flung back, slamming into Ahsoka as she finds her feet, and they both go tumbling together towards the wall. Mace throws up a hand, and Cody can feel an equal force meet Palpatine’s power. It keeps Mace standing, lets him straighten in the wake of the blow as Cody scrambles upright, and he catches another spray of lightning on his lightsaber’s blade.

“The Republic will be _broken_ ,” Palpatine hisses, and it vibrates down Cody's spine, curls into a place where instinctive terror rests.

“Not by you,” Mace says, as steady as ancient stone. “Not now.” He advances, blade raised, and Palpatine lets his own lightsaber hum to life.

“And you would stop me, Master Windu?” he asks silkily. “After a thousand years of the Jedi Order turning the other way? Looking away from politics and not getting involved? Now you deign to help?”

“The Jedi have always done their best to help,” Mace says, unwavering. “It just so happens that removing you is the most expedient way to do that this time. The Sith are our business.”

“Your _doom_ ,” Palpatine counters, and parries Mace's blow almost lazily. “You saved the commander, and you saved a handful of clones, but you have nothing else to show for all of this struggle, Master Windu. Only more darkness in your soul than there was before.” He smiles cruelly. “Perhaps, when I've defeated you, I’ll return Vitiate’s blade and watch it consume you. You will make a most promising apprentice.”

The fury of Palpatine’s presence is tangible, something Cody can sense without effort. But—there's a strange echo to it, an equal ferocity rising in Mace. Shadows, too, spun with dark threads, and Cody can feel the strain that containing them is putting on him, but it’s still enough to let him face Palpatine equally, to meet the burn of Palpatine’s presence and shatter it like a hammer-blow.

“Never,” Mace says, perfectly set and full of a faith that’s grounded in bedrock. Nothing hopeful about it, but—belief. Belief and knowledge of himself, and Cody closes his eyes, shifts his grip on the warblade, and thinks, _I feel it too_.

Mace isn't going to fall, even with the growing darkness around them. He won't. Cody knows that like he knows his own name, and like his name, it’s a choice. A choice Mace made and won't waver from.

He steps up to Mace's side, knowing how he’s going to move, fully aware of Mace and himself both. Braced for it when Mace falls back a step, because Cody moves right into the gap, swings for Palpatine’s head like he’s wielding an axe and doesn’t bother to look to where Palpatine’s lightsaber is stabbing for his chest.

A violet blade blocks it, and Palpatine throws himself back at the last second to avoid Cody's strike, straightens—

Like a sunrise, like a solar flare, light rises. Not visible brilliance, but something soul-deep and _sharp_ , like the blade of a knife. It’s power and hope and perseverance, and it cracks the roiling darkness of Dromund Kaas right down the center with one blow.

Cody's breath catches, and he raises his head. Feels Mace rise, soul lightening, deep, furious _relief_ surging, and turns.

Shmi is standing there, right behind Palpatine. Her lantern is still dripping blood, still battered, but it’s lifted high and glowing, and there’s a look of restrained ferocity on her face, the teeth-bared stubbornness of a woman who’s spent too long crushed down and yet stood up every time. She’s small and aging and worn, greying and tired around the edges, but with that look she’s _beautiful_ , like every ounce of hope in the whole galaxy has made its home inside of her.

“ _You_.” Palpatine’s face contorts, and he wrenches his hand up, flings lightning at her in a wash of black-edged power. Shmi flinches, but holds her ground, and the lighting crackles out of being at the edge of the lantern’s circle of light. It makes Palpatine take a step forward, fury rising, and the rage Cody felt from him before is nothing compared to this, a candle flame against a forest fire as he stalks closer, lightsaber hissing to life in a flare of red. “Where did you get that power? How did you survive?”

Shmi squares her shoulders, raises her chin. “I _asked_ ,” she says, sharp, and takes a step back as Palpatine approaches.

“Mom!” Anakin cries, and struggles to his feet. Hesitates, looking torn, but a motion and a barked word from Fox has him running for them.

Before she has to retreat any farther, Cody moves, puts himself between her and Palpatine, and raises the warblade. “Don’t even think about it,” he warns, and then Anakin is past him with a sound of fury, slashing out at Palpatine. Two furious blows drive Palpatine back, and Mace twists past the edge of Anakin's blade, sweeps a blow at Palpatine’s guard to distract him, leaps up and over his head and twists in from his maimed side. Palpatine snarls, throws a hand out to knock them away, but he misses Cody.

A step, a half-turn, and Cody brings the warblade down, aiming for the lightsaber—

Lightning _burns_ , and Shmi cries out. Cody doesn’t even have the breath for that much.

He hits the ground to the feeling of Mace's anger, the bright-sharp snap of righteous fury that rises, and a moment later the pain washes away, retreats under a tide of cool relief. Cody groans, limbs still twitching, head spinning, and feels more than sees the way Mace lunges, the blurred-quick speed of his strikes as he pushes Palpatine back. Anakin is slower rising, staggers, but he grits his teeth and follows, but—

Even with only one hand, Palpatine can hold them off. Even outnumbered two to one, he isn't retreating.

“Ahsoka!” Anakin shouts. “Get my mom to the ship! Master Billaba and her padawan too!”

For once, Ahsoka doesn’t bother arguing. She ducks around the fight, grabbing Shmi's arm, and tugs her towards the cruiser. Ponds follows with Caleb, close on their heels as they all retreat at a run, and Cody breathes out in relief. Fewer people, fewer fighters, but—

Fewer victims, since Palpatine seems to take great pleasure in targeting anyone who can't immediately defend themselves.

General Billaba isn't moving, though. She’s on her feet, grimly determined, her hood knocked down and her braids tangled but her back straight and set. As Cody watches, she brings her hands up, thumb and forefinger forming a loop and her other fingers extended, and closes her eyes. The air around her shimmers, low and soft, and Cody can _feel_ something happening, a strange echo from underneath Mace's presence.

Their bond, he realizes with a start. Mace and Depa have a training bond, and with Cody in Mace's head, he can feel it too. Which means he can feel whatever Depa is doing, knows that she’s going to need an opening.

Taking a breath, he grits his teeth and hauls himself upright, dragging the warblade with him. Keeps his fingers tight around the hilt, because it’s doubtless healing him if he’s recovered so quickly, and brings the blade up just as Mace is thrown back by a hard kick. He crashes into the ground, right on his bad shoulder, and the pain on the other side of the bond surges for half an instant before Mace chokes it back, but it’s still enough to punch the breath from Cody's lungs. He staggers, and there’s a cry, but not his. Anakin's, furious and harsh, and he spins in, lightsaber lashing out at Palpatine’s neck.

Palpatine’s lightsaber knocks his wide, and half a beat later his hand lands right in the center of Anakin's chest. Anakin's eyes go wide, one half-second before lightning surges.

With a scream, Anakin collapses, shaking and trembling, practically convulsing. He can't move, and Cody lunges—

A hard grip catches him by the throat, crushing, choking as it hauls him up off his feet, and he feels like it’s about to snap his spine, like he’s about to get his neck broken—

Depa's eyes snap open, and she cries, “Now!”

Cody doesn’t know who she means. No one is close, no one is ready—

On the other side of the room, sprawled halfway on his side, Fox pushes up. His face is a mask of blood from his bleeding nose, his eyes are wild, but he lifts a hand with intent, the exact same motion Cody has seen from the generals a thousand times before.

Between Fox and Palpatine, light catches on metal as something small levitates, spins. It hovers there for half an instant, and then Fox throws his hand out, a desperate snarl breaking from his throat. The object goes flying like a bullet, too fast to see, and there's a click, a hiss, a _blur_ as it explodes into spinning green light. Depa's lightsaber cuts a path through the still air, propelled by the Force, aimed right at the Sith Lord.

Palpatine senses it. He jerks—

Slows, and stumbles, and Depa hisses with effort but takes a step forward. Braces herself there, and Cody can _feel_ the threads she’s weaving around Palpatine suddenly pull tight, the tangle of illusion she’s dragged around his mind. He’s one half-second slower than he thinks he is, a little less coordinated, and—

It’s enough.

Her lightsaber steadies but doesn’t stop, and the lit blade is moving too fast to block. The grip on his throat disappears, and Cody lands on his feet, lunges, feels the edge of Mace's awareness, the sharp _push_ of Mace's power that makes him just a little faster than he should be as he brings the warblade around.

Depa's lightsaber sinks into Palpatine’s chest with one hard blow, and he staggers back, expression going slack with surprise.

Half a beat behind it, Cody sets his feet and _swings_.

Just like every other time, the impossibly sharp edge of the warblade cleaves straight through flesh and bone alike. Palpatine has no chance to block, is likely already dying, but Cody doesn’t hesitate. He cuts off the Sith Lord’s head with one hard stroke, and—

The burst of power is nothing but the Dark, exploding out of Palpatine’s body as it crumbles. It lifts Cody right off his feet, sends him hurtling back with all the force of an explosion, and he slams into the wall, feels his head hit—

Darkness.


	43. Chapter 43

“So that’s where Grievous slithered off to,” Blitz says disgustedly. “Attacking Kamino while everyone else is distracted in the Radama system.”

“Masters Fisto and Koth will make it in time,” Shaak says, and her calm settles with a breath. She believes it; things are falling together, and this is one more in the chain.

Havoc hums, not quite skeptical, but—jaded. Shaak can feel the slant of his thoughts sliding sideways into calculation, a sniper’s careful assessment of too many moving targets. “Could they have gotten word of Dooku's capture?” he asks.

“It won't matter,” Shaak says, and something in her curls, satisfied, like a big feline after a hunt. “Saesee won't let anything stop him from returning Dooku to Coruscant for trial.” She straightens, stepping away from the comm terminal, and says, “Master Gallia will hold until Kit and Eeth can arrive. We should reach Kamino shortly after them.”

Quinlan, sprawled out on one of the benches along the wall, mended arm in his lap and one boot propped against the wall, tilts his head, the beads woven into his dreadlocks catching the light and drawing her eye. “You want to go after Grievous, too,” he says, and there's amusement in it. “No wonder you were always Master Tholme’s favorite, Master Ti.”

“What?” Havoc says, alarmed. “After _Grievous_?”

But Blitz is already grinning, and he turns away from the controls to look Shaak over. “Fight got your blood up, General?” he asks.

Shaak inclines her head, a little rueful. “It won't cloud my judgement,” she says. “But yes. Another fight would not be objectionable right now.” Hunts make her _happy_ , in ways a Human likely wouldn’t understand. She’s seen Humans get shaky in the aftermath of adrenaline, or freeze up, but Togruta are predators, and her adrenaline sharpens everything, makes her calmer, deadlier.

It seems a shame not to share that with Grievous, now that the opportunity has presented itself.

Blitz just shrugs, apparently content with that. “We can probably dock while they’re distracted,” he says. “Get into the hangar and fight our way to the bridge. Three Jedi Masters and four clone commanders makes for a hell of a strike team.”

Quinlan eyes Shaak, then tips his head. “I’ll tell Plo, when he and his commander are up,” he says. “Go sleep it off, Master. Otherwise Grievous won't have a fair chance.”

Shaak snorts softly, but she rests a hand on his hair as she steps past him. “Grievous will have no chance to run, this time,” she says. “Between the three of us and the troopers.”

Quinlan's grin is more bared teeth than anything. “And if he does run, I'm okay with a little hide and seek.”

Havoc still doesn’t look entirely settled, but he nods to Shaak as she passes, the curve of his mouth something rueful. “You're going to have to be the one to break it to Colt,” he says dryly. “But we’ve got your back, sir.”

“That was never in doubt,” Shaak tells him, and touches his shoulder briefly. “Blitz, be sure to rest.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll kick Wolffe out of bed and make him relieve me in a bit.” Blitz waves to her, and the slant of his grin is wicked. “Sleep well.”

Shaak shakes her head at him in amusement, but opens the door of the remaining small room and slips inside, letting it slide shut behind her. The Jedi cruiser is cramped, but there are at least enough beds for them to sleep in shifts, even if they have to share. Sleep well, even, judging by the peace in Colt's expression, the still, deep sleep he’s settled into. He’s stretched out on his back on the sole bed, one arm bent above his head, the other draped over his chest, and Shaak feels something warm bleed outward through her veins.

Careful, light, she steps across the floor, then sinks down, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. That slight shift is enough to make Colt stir, head turning towards her, and Shaak breathes out, soft and slow. Thinks, for a moment, about whether to wake him, but he’s already waking regardless. She can at least make it more pleasant.

Leaning over Colt, she braces a hand on the pillow, ducks her head. Her lekku fall across his chest, curl on the bed, and like this the feeling of them is sharper, more intense, but she ducks her head without pause, lays a soft kiss over his mouth, and feels the hitch in his chest as his eyes slide open. Colt's hand comes up, and he hums low in his throat, opens his mouth and kisses back, lazy and half-asleep. His fingers curl around a lek, stroke up, and Shaak traps a moan in her throat, shivers. When blunt nails just scrape the underside, she has to drag her mouth away from Colt's and just breathe for a moment, a shock of white-bright pleasure trembling through her nerves.

“Done plotting?” Colt asks roughly, but Shaak can see the heat in his eyes, feel the distraction. The hand on her lek slides down her shoulder, an arm hooking around her waist, and Shaak hums.

“I'm going to crush Grievous between my palms, should he fail to surrender,” she murmurs, smiling, and Colt's breath hitches. He stares up at her for a long moment before his hand tightens on her waist, and there’s a sharp pull. It startles a laugh out of Shaak's throat as she goes spilling onto the bed, and Colt rolls on top of her, flush against her body, arms braced on either side of her head.

“If you're going to talk like that, and _look_ like that,” Colt says, raw, “I can't be held accountable for where my brain goes.”

Shaak can feel it, the heated twist of his thoughts. The memory, too, of her legs around his waist and her gasps against his mouth, and she has to chuckle. A pretty picture, really, and she brushes her fingers over the prickle of his shorn hair and smiles up at him.

“Perhaps that’s precisely where I want it to go,” she suggests, and drags her nails across the nape of his neck, wringing a shiver from him.

“Playing dirty,” Colt complains, but he kisses her again, slow and careful. His hand slides down her side, thumb just grazing the edge of her breast, knuckles dragging across her lek, and Shaak moans. She wraps her arms around his shoulders, gets a leg hitched up and over one of his thighs, and laughs when he groans.

“Dirty?” Shaak asks, and raises a brow. “I was just trying to give you something nice to wake up to.”

Colt stares down at her for a moment, then snorts. He leans down, kisses her once more, and the slide of his tongue is deliberate, skims her sharp teeth and tangles with her own. Shaak hums, pleased, and the buzz of languid eagerness that’s been making her restless since her fight with Dooku is shifting, sliding into something sweet and full of want.

“Thought I was waking up to a dream,” Colt murmurs against her lips, and it aches sweetly in Shaak's chest, the fact that he _means_ it, right down to his bones.

“Even with all the bruises?” Shaak asks, and draws a hand down his spine, light but lingering, tracing the spread of soreness through his muscles. He hit the wall hard, but—it could have been far worse, and she’s grateful that it wasn’t.

“Nothing’s perfect,” Colt says, a little dry, and pulls back, looking down at her for a long moment. Then, soft, he smiles, and his knuckles brush her cheekbone, slide around the back of her neck, right under her lekku. It makes her gasp, makes her head fall back as she shudders, calluses against sensitive skin and almost too many nerves, and Colt curses. Kisses her again, harder, and Shaak drags him closer, tightens her leg over his thigh and slips a hand beneath his shirt—

With a pained groan, Colt drags his mouth away, sits back, and Shaak can't help the noise of regret as he pulls away. She doesn’t bother moving, though, because Colt sweeps a look over her body and back up to her face, expression twisted with want, and then sits back on his heels. Tips his head back, like he can't look at her and stay in control, and Shaak laughs, leaning up on one elbow.

“Are you all right, Colt?” she asks, amused, and Colt swallows.

“It’s a small ship,” he says roughly. “And I definitely don’t have a Jedi's willpower.”

Shaak chuckles, tilting her head to look up at him. “Intimacy does make control harder for me,” she allows. “And it would be a shame to crack the hull because I was enjoying myself too much.”

“Kriff,” Colt mutters, squeezing his eyes shut. “That shouldn’t make me want you _more_.”

With a laugh, Shaak lets herself sink back into the pillows, then holds out her hands for him. “I need sleep,” she says, gentle. “And I would like to sleep close to you. If you don’t mind it.”

“You in my bed for any reason isn't something I'm about to complain about,” Colt says, voice gruff, and slips off of her, dropping back to the mattress. He reaches out, and Shaak goes willingly, letting him gather her into his arms and pull her close. Her heart is still beating a little too quick, the burn of want a low-level heat stitched to her spine, but Shaak settles against him, feels his arms wrap around her just tight enough to ground, and—

It’s peaceful. Colt's mind is cool and steely focus just softened by warmth and sleep, and there are silver threads of wonder wound through it, bright and sweet. His fingers stroke lightly across her third lek, less sensitive than the others, and it’s not quite enough to be a tease, but—pleasant.

It’s been a long time since Shaak took anyone to bed like this, but she’d forgotten the intimacy of it, the tangle of thoughts, the fact that she can feel every inch of Colt's body against her own. Colt rests his forehead against hers, just breathing, and Shaak closes her eyes, curling her fingers over his hip.

“It’s almost later,” she says softly, and can't help but smile.

Colt huffs a laugh, dark eyes opening, and he catches her gaze, grazes the pad of a thumb over her cheek. “I know Jedi don’t plan, but by the time we get there I'm going to have an itemized _list_ of all the things I want to do.”

Shaak laughs a little, soft in the bare centimeters of space between them. “It hasn’t been that long,” she says.

“What can I say? You're inspiring.” Colt looks at her, and—

That ache sweetly, too. He means it in so many more ways than just sexual, and Shaak doesn’t need to be a Jedi to see that on his face. She tips her head to brush her mouth over his, and he pulls her that one bare centimeter closer, kisses back and then wraps his arms fully around her, pressing a kiss between her montrals and holding her tightly. Shaak tucks her face into the curve of his throat, feeling the beat of his pulse so close, and smiles.

“I feel the same of you, Colt,” she says, stroking light fingertips across his ribs. “Your faith, and your kindness, and your bravery. The Jedi are fortunate to have you.”

“Yeah, well.” Colt breathes out, arms tightening just a little. “It’s not the Jedi who have me. It’s you. You're my choice.”

Three small, simple words, but they mean everything. Shaak touches his mind, lets him feel what she’s feeling, and hears his hitched breath of laughter as he ducks his head to press his cheek to hers. The emotion echoes between them, returned, amplified, and Shaak smiles and closes her eyes.

Fox’s head is swimming, and his nose is still bleeding. There's an ache like someone was using his brain for a game of grav-ball, and standing seems like something he shouldn’t plan to do, possibly for a long time. But he hears the steps, weaving, wavering, and manages to pry his eyes open long enough to look up at General Billaba as she staggers closer. She’s still shaking, involuntary muscle tremors wracking her, but she bears them long enough to collapse to the ground beside him.

“Perfect timing,” she says wryly, and reaches out, curling a hand over his brow.

“General Skywalker?” Fox rasps, because he _saw_ him go down, saw him fall with Palpatine’s hand on his chest, and then he _didn’t get up_.

General Billaba just smiles crookedly, though. “He’ll be fine, Commander,” she says gently, and Fox breathes out, forces himself to calm down.

He tips his head back, enjoying the coolness of her palm, and says, “The Chancellor’s dead.”

“Quite dead,” Billaba agrees calmly, and then groans, quiet. She sinks back, lying flat next to him, and closes her eyes. “Your mind is tangled up with Skywalker's,” she says. “You use a lightsaber just like him.”

“Sorry,” Fox whispers, because it was _hers_ he was using like that, without permission, without any sort of connection between them.

Billaba just waves a hand, though, dismissing that. “I'm glad,” she says. “Green suits you, I think.” Opening one eye, she gives him a crooked smile. “Holding the Sith Lord took all of my concentration, so I'm very glad you realized what I wanted.”

Fox felt it. In some way, with some instinctive sort of _knowing_ , he’d felt her intent, understood how to make the lightsaber move.

“I don’t _get it_ ,” he says, frustrated, aching, angry that he’s both. He’s the commander of the Coruscant Guard; he’s supposed to be better than this. “I'm not a Jedi. I'm not—”

There's a rough sound, a thud, and Fox opens his eyes, already reaching out. Anakin catches his hand, on his knees beside Fox, and there’s a tangible tremble to his fingers but laughter in his face, a fierceness to his grin that ricochets through Fox’s nerve endings to sink into his gut.

“You killed him,” Anakin says, and it’s a death’s-head grin, all edges, but he hangs onto Fox’s hands even as running steps sound, slides closer. Fox doesn’t want to move, but somehow it feels like no effort at all to wrap his arms around Anakin's shoulders, let Anakin haul him up against him, and he lets his forehead fall onto Anakin's collarbone with a huff.

“I think it was a team effort, sir,” he says, a little dry, but Anakin's arm is looped around his chest and Fox has always seen, admired from a distance, but—

But, he thinks, curling his fingers into Anakin's dark tabard. _But_.

Anakin's breath is heavy, ragged. “Yeah,” he says. “Alone would have been…different.”

Fox shudders, not able to help himself, and Palpatine’s order still rings in his ears, vibrates through him like a tuning fork struck wrong. Ignorable, though, and he grits his teeth and pushes it aside. It still makes Anakin tighten his grip, pulling him closer, but the wound in Fox’s side jars, makes him gasp and flinch, and Anakin raises his head with a jerk. Fox can _feel_ the sudden surge of fear, the lash of thought reaching out towards the ship.

From within, there’s a scramble that Fox shouldn’t be aware of, then booted footsteps, and Kix runs for them as Lightning Squadron’s medic splits off, heading for General Windu. There are other troopers behind them, more of Lightning, and the commanders, and Fox lets some edge of tension ease, slumping back into Anakin's hold. His bones feel impossibly heavy, his head aches, but Anakin is warm, holding firm despite what Palpatine did to him, and all Fox wants is to stay right here forever.

“Sir?” Kix asks worriedly. “Are you all right?”

“Just some electrical shock,” Anakin says. “But Fox got stabbed. With a lightsaber. I don’t—”

“He’s healing,” Billaba says, opening her eyes, and she smiles as Commander Dume crashes to his knees beside her. She raises a hand, and Dume grabs it, grips it. “I'm fine, Caleb,” she says gently.

“You took out a _Sith Lord_ ,” Dume says, awed.

Billaba chuckles softly. “Justice,” she says. “For all the men he’s gotten killed. And I just helped.” Her gaze slides back to Fox, and she tells Anakin, “When you touch him, he heals faster. There's a bond between you, in the Force, but it’s like nothing I've felt before.”

Fox’s breath stutters, and he can't quite get another lungful of air. “ _Bond_?” he manages. “What—what does that mean?”

Sitting up carefully, Billaba drags Dume in against her side, pressing a kiss to his hair, and says, “I'm assuming, but I believe that’s why you were able to use the Force, Commander. Anakin has more than enough power to spare, and it’s bleeding through you, along with his memories. You fight just like him when you have a lightsaber in your hand.”

Fox grimaces, only partially at Kix unclasping his armor and cutting away at the thermals beneath, the wound tugging as he does. Anakin's hand closes over his, and—it helps.

It shouldn’t, but karking hells, Fox feels like he can finally breathe when Anakin's touching him.

With a quiet rustle of cloth, someone else sinks down beside them, and Shmi says softly, “Anakin?”

“Mom.” Anakin reaches for her with his other hand, and she similes and slips her fingers into his, then turns back to Fox with a worried look. “Are you okay?”

“I'm fine, Ani.” Shmi squeezes his fingers, though her dark eyes don’t shift from Fox’s. “You're—a commander?”

“Fox,” Fox corrects, and then shuts his mouth to swallow a sound of pain as Kix's careful fingers probe his side. He turns his head away, trying to catch his breath, and Anakin makes a low, angry sound, his fingers curling tight into Fox’s hair.

“You’ll be all right, Fox,” Shmi says soothingly, and she tears a piece of cloth off her skirt without hesitating, starts to wipe the blood from Fox’s face with gentle touches. Her tone is pure certainty, a faith that sends prickles down Fox’s spine. “Just breathe. You're all right.”

“What are you?” Fox asks, but his vision is going grey around the edges, and he can hardly keep his eyes open anymore.

There's a pause, like surprise, and then Shmi smiles. “I'm like you,” she says quietly, and pulls back. There's—something. Something about her, something within her, that Fox can almost see the edges of when he looks at her out of the corner of his eye.

“Me?” he echoes, startled.

Shmi inclines her head, the heavy coil of her dark hair spilling down to unwind across her shoulders, her expression just a little fierce. She’s a wild thing, but forced tame around the edges, and there's so much _more_ of her than Fox can see. He knows it without having to test it, the same way he knows oceans are deep without having to throw himself in. It’s obvious in her eyes, in the line of her spine; Fox looks at her and believes without a second thought that this is Anakin Skywalker's mother, and so much more besides.

“Yes,” she says, and curls her fingers around his chin, gently forcing him to meet her eyes. Fox’s breath catches, and something inside of him _shivers_ , deep down in his bones. It might be awe, or fear, or maybe just all the concussions. After a moment, though Shmi's smile softens, and so does her grip. She glances at Anakin, and then back at fox, and says, “We’re free.”

There’s a hollow buzzing in Mace's head, an ache in his shoulder that goes right down to the bone, but the other side of the bond is dark. Not _empty_ , but—muffled, and after everything, after that burst if buffeting dark power, that’s more than enough to urge Mace up. He gets an arm beneath himself, rolls over—

“Sir!” Brass says, a little too loud, and dumps his pack beside him, already half-open. “Lie back down, sir. Now, and that’s an order.”

It’s very, very rare that Brass bothers to pull out the orders, and Mace raises a brow at him, but slumps back down on the stone. “Cody?” he asks. Brass makes no sign of having heard, and Mace belatedly remembers that he told them to mute their comms. Reaching out with his good arm, he taps Brass’s wrist, and when the medic glances at him, he gestures to his ear and gives the all-clear signal.

Brass doesn’t even hesitate; he switches his comm back on, then reaches up and pulls off his helmet, giving Mace a relieved smile. “Sorry, sir. What was that?”

“Cody,” Mace repeats, and winces as he pushes up on one elbow again. “Is he—?”

“Down,” Brass says firmly, and Mace raises a brow but lies back. “Scanner says he has a concussion but isn't bleeding into his brain. You, though, have lost a good portion of your blood and you have a wound from a lightsaber and a sword _and_ electrical burns, and that’s not even counting a concussion, or the fact that you’ve been _strangled_ , or—”

“Brass,” Mace says, amused, and Brass closes his mouth, takes a deep breath through his nose like he’s summoning all of his patience, and nods shortly.

“ _You_ ,” he says firmly, “are hurt. This is triage.” Turning, he waves at Ponds as the commander approaches, and Ponds touches his comm, gives an unheard order, and then drags his helmet off. He looks at Brass, who gestures to Cody and says, “Get him over here. _Carefully_. I don’t see any spinal injuries on the scan, but he’s bounced his head off a lot of solid objects in the last few days.”

Ponds waves Razor over, then gives Mace a relieved smile. “It’s Cody,” he says. “He’ll be fine. I've met banthas that don’t have heads as hard as him.”

Mace snorts, but watches as Razor and Ponds carefully lift Cody between them. Cody's hand is still wrapped tight around the warblade, and the sword itself is swirling with dark energy, thrumming against Mace's bones. But—maybe that’s not a bad thing, given the darkness that left Palpatine when he died. Without the sword, Cody might have been consumed by it.

As soon as they lay Cody out beside him, Mace reaches for his hand, slotting their fingers together and then closing his eyes. The touch isn't necessary to feel the weight of Cody's mind, still unconscious, but—it’s a comfort all the same, and it helps Mace stay still and silent as Brass starts to clean up the stab in his shoulder.

“Any lost?” he asks Ponds, and the Ponds shakes his head immediately.

“Looks like everyone’s accounted for,” he says, and then, “Clip turned on the cameras. We got a good portion of the fight.”

Proof for the Senate, at least, Mace thinks wearily, and closes his eyes again. That’s going to be a headache and a half.

“Leave the cruiser,” he says. “Get everyone aboard your transport.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll get Blowback to set up a forcefield around the Coruscanti ship, too, just in case.” Ponds pauses, looking down at him, and then breathes out. Says, quiet, “Glad to have you back, sir. Even if you're looking a little worse for wear.”

Mace snorts, tightening his grip on Cody's hand and letting his head fall back. “Sith planets,” he says dryly, “present a unique set of challenges for those who are diametrically opposed to them, such as Jedi.”

“If you say so, sir—”

“General!” Fives says, ducking around Ponds with care not to actually mow him down. “Are you all right? That explosion—Commander Tano said—”

“I said it was Dark, not that the general was hurt,” Ahsoka protests, right on his heels, but when Mace looks at her, she grins at him. “Master Windu! I'm glad you're okay.”

“He will be if you stay out of my light,” Brass complains good-naturedly, not even looking up from cleaning the wound. Obediently, Ahsoka shifts, coming to kneel next to Mace's shoulder, and she looks from him to Cody. Hesitates, biting her lip, and—

“Master?” she asks quietly.

Mace huffs, mouth pulling up wryly. “I’ll explain later,” he says. “But it’s necessary.”

“Sir?” Ponds asks warily.

“A mental bond,” Mace says after a moment. “I can feel Cody's mind very clearly.” It’s an understatement, but the easiest explanation he can manage.

Brass makes a sound of amusement, even as he gently eases Mace up onto his side to get at the other part of the wound. “No wonder you're not planting your heels and making me see to him first,” he says. “He’s all right, then?”

“He will be,” Mace says with certainty. The warblade is already healing him, even faster than it has in the past. There's enough power from Palpatine’s death that it’s likely not short on reserves, either.

Mace isn't about to touch the thing again, though. He feels tired, drained, and part of that is the injuries, the fight, the lack of sleep, but a large portion of it is using the warblade. It’s not made for Jedi hands, and Mace will be lucky if the worst it did was wind tethers of darkness through him. Those can be removed with time and meditation. Anything worse he’ll have to figure out later.

Faint, light, he feels Cody's fingers close around his own, feels a restless stir of thoughts that isn't quite consciousness yet. It’s a comfort, though, and in the wake of that Mace doesn’t even mind the sharp pinch of the anesthetic Brass gives him, or the darkness that follows.


	44. Chapter 44

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Penultimate chapter! Holy heck what a ride this has been, and thank you so much to everyone who's read this ridiculous should-have-been-20k fic! I appreciate to an unspeakable degree everyone who's taken the time to leave a comment or a kudos, because all of you rock hardcore. 
> 
> Because it's come up several times in the comments, I wanted to clarify: there _will_ be a sequel with Padme/Anakin/Fox as the focus, and likely a collection of shorter fics and one-shots to flesh out some stuff that wasn't vital to the plot in the main fic.

Depa is nowhere on the _Endurance_ , and Obi-Wan doesn’t have a single earthly idea what could have happened to her.

“You're _sure_ you didn’t see her again after you parted?” he asks Rex, who looks equally tense and increasingly concerned as they make their way down the halls.

“No,” Rex says grimly. “She and Commander Dume left and headed this way, and apparently Neyo saw the commander near the hangar, but otherwise…”

Otherwise, Depa and her padawan have both vanished, leaving no trace behind, and now Ahsoka isn't answering her comm, though Obi-Wan hopes she’s just brooding somewhere with her master gone. Obi-Wan frowns, sweeping a look across the corridor, and there's tension rising, winding around his spine and sinking its teeth into his nape. He’s too tired for this, hasn’t slept well since Anakin and Mace went missing. And now, with this—

“Their quarters are in the other direction,” he says. “Why would they come _this_ way, so late at night?”

Rex shakes his head, and he looks as tired as Obi-Wan feels. “None of the men remember seeing anything strange,” he says. “If they were abducted, there’s no sign.”

The idea of someone sneaking aboard a flagship cruiser, abducting an extremely skilled and powerful councilmember, and taking her padawan along as well, without setting off any alarms or tripping any sensors, rather boggles the mind, and Obi-Wan sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Poor Commander Grey,” he says ruefully.

With a wince, Rex turns, taking the path towards the hangar. “He’s not happy,” he says dryly. “Then again, I think this is the first time since her fight with Grievous that he hasn’t had eyes on General Billaba.”

And she promptly disappeared. Obi-Wan isn't overly familiar with Grey, but he’s willing to bet that when they get Depa back, he won't be letting her out of his sight for a very long while. He rather feels the same way about Anakin, so it’s not as if he can blame the man.

“Kriff,” he says, rubbing a hand over his eyes. They feel gritty with lack of sleep, and the news that Grievous is attacking Kamino doesn’t help at all. Kit and Eeth made it in time to help, at least, so Adi and Agen aren’t there with millions of cadets and a single wing of starfighters, but—

He wants to go and help, but duty means they need to focus on Ord Radama, on making sure there's nothing waiting to push through while they're distracted and separated. It’s too dangerous to leave a place that Grievous targeted, even if it’s likely it was just used as a distraction. Obi-Wan just has to have faith, has to scrape just a little more from the bottom of his soul and cling to it.

At the very least, he has the Jedi charter to occupy himself in the meantime. Obi-Wan sighs, silently cursing Mace, and—Jedi memorize the basics of what each volume of the charter covers, the broad strokes, and Mace most certainly did the same. But this particular volume is one that has barely been opened a handful of times in the last three hundred years. There’s no way Mace could have known that one hastily-written, obsolete clause could have turned the whole galaxy on its ear.

The clones are free. By virtue of Mandalorian society being what it is, Cody marrying Mace has made all the clone troopers immediate in-laws of a Jedi, and therefore part of the Republic. They're citizens, with full rights and a voice in the Senate, and the Senate isn't taking it well. Obi-Wan’s inbox is so flooded with messages that he simply closed it and hasn’t checked it since the message from Halle Burtoni demanding he do something about Padmé’s immediate proposal to have the clones elect a senator of their own, despite their lack of a true home world.

Obi-Wan is very, very fond of Padmé, both as Anakin's lover and in her own right. But sometimes, she makes his life _incredibly_ difficult.

“Sir?” Rex says quietly, and there's a light touch on his shoulder. Obi-Wan realizes belated that he’s stopped walking, and he forces his eyes open, looks over at Rex, and—

Well. He’s looking at a free man. It’s easy to smile, in the face of that.

(He caught Waxer and Boil, as the news and rumors spread, with their heads bent together, plotting a return to Ryloth to see Numa as soon as the war ended. Overheard Hardcase and Jesse talking excitedly about communities on Concord Dawn sending out open invitations to any clones who wanted to settle. Wooley and Longshot and Charger were talking about backpay and buying a ship and exploring all the parts of the galaxy that haven’t seen war, and—

Obi-Wan didn’t allow himself, before, to dwell on the fate of the clones. All he could focus on was keeping as many of them alive as possible in the here and now, holding back the Separatist armies from overrunning and slaughtering any more planets, preserving the fragile balance that the civil war left them with as best he could. But now, with all of this, there’s so much _more_ , and it feels like a light in the darkness of this terrible war.)

“I'm sorry, Rex,” he says, and lays his hand over Rex's, allows himself a brief moment of touch before he’s pulling away again. “I think my tea is wearing off.”

“I think your _lack of sleep_ is what you're feeling,” Rex says, a little wryly. “Not a lack of caffeine.” He pauses, considering Obi-Wan carefully, and finally says, “We’ll find General Skywalker, sir.”

Obi-Wan gives him a wan smile in return. “Hopefully before the end of the war,” he agrees. “It would be just like Anakin to crash somewhere uninhabited and drag himself back with a repaired ship three weeks after the fallout of everything.”

Rex snorts, and the curl of his mouth is a distracting thing, the scar on his chin clear from this close. Rex's scars are more subtle than Cody's, faded white and pale against his dark skin, and Obi-Wan doesn’t want to find them intriguing, but he does.

“With his luck, he’ll have started another war in the meantime,” he says, and Obi-Wan can't help but chuckle.

“Please don’t tempt fate,” he tells Rex, and Rex raises his hands in surrender.

“Speaking tactically, sir,” he says. “From experience.”

“The Anakin experience,” Obi-Wan says dryly, if fondly. “Believe me, Captain, I know it well.”

“Given that you raised him, I would imagine you know it better than anyone.” Rex glances ahead of them, then turns. Hesitates, just long enough for Obi-Wan to notice, before he reaches out and grips Obi-Wan’s elbow, steering him a step back into the recess of a window. “Sir, I—I know this is hard on you, but if you need anything—”

Obi-Wan will likely never recover from how blasted _kind_ Rex is. Despite everything, all of the battles and the losses and the strain, he’s still a good man. One of the best, and Obi-Wan smiles at him, just a little. Anakin was unspeakably lucky to get Rex as his second-in-command.

“Thank you, Rex,” he says. “And the offer goes both ways. Please come to me no matter what you need, whether it’s assistance or just a quiet place to be. I would be most pleased to provide either.”

Rex's eyes flicker over his face, and he hasn’t let go, is still gripping Obi-Wan’s elbow. “I will,” he says after a moment, and then smirks. Obi-Wan tries very hard not to notice the truly wicked slant of it, or the way a sudden flicker of warm humor lights up his eyes. “I was thinking I’d get Cody back for springing his wedding on me,” he says.

Now _that_ is a man after Obi-Wan’s own heart. He raises a brow, already fully willing to commit, and says, “Well that certainly sounds like something I should get in on, seeing as he and Mace didn’t even have the courtesy to invite me. Or so much as tell me they were dating.”

Rex hesitates, then gives Obi-Wan a slightly crooked smile. “If it makes you feel better, I found out less than twelve hours before the wedding, and Cody didn’t even bother to tell me who he was marrying.”

“It still makes me want to put dye in his caf,” Obi-Wan admits after a moment, because he grew up in the crèche; _he_ knows all of the tricks there are to pull. “But, I suppose, even if they were trying to hide it, something good came of the whole matter. Cody's new freedom can be the universe’s wedding present to them.”

It makes Rex snort. “Thank the Force for ancient and obscure law codes,” he says dryly. “Do you think the Separatists were just waiting for a Jedi to marry a clone, so they could dump this on the Republic?”

“I honestly don’t see why they waited,” Obi-Wan says, wry, and casts Rex a smile. “I can't think of a single Jedi who wouldn’t make the choice to marry if the outcome was freeing millions of souls.”

Rex pauses, and his expression flickers into a frown. “Do you think that’s what happened?” he asks quietly, casting a glance up the hall. “That it’s a sham?”

Obi-Wan opens his mouth to answer, then slowly closes it as he tries to line up facts. It seems unbelievable. It seems _absurd_ , that Mace would marry anyone. But—

The comm on his arm crackles to life, and Neyo says sharply, “General Kenobi, I have an incoming ship requesting medical assistance and a Jedi presence in the hangar.”

Obi-Wan’s pulse leaps, and he’s moving before he even starts to respond. “One of ours, Commander?” he asks.

“It’s Commander Ponds’s personal code, sir,” Neyo answers. “I ran it, and everything checks out. The ship’s registered to Lightning Squadron, and he says they’ve got Generals Skywalker and Windu aboard.”

Abruptly, Obi-Wan realizes that it’s been a full day since he last saw Ponds, which is entirely unusual. Ponds is a quiet man, but he’s always a warm presence on the ship, always _somewhere_. And between that and Depa's sudden and abrupt disappearance—

“Kriff,” he mutters, glancing at Rex. “What have they done _now_?”

It’s clear Rex had the same thought. He grimaces, but clicks on his comm, and orders, “Lieutenant Shank, Hangar Bay 3, on the double. Incoming squad with wounded.”

“A squad without a medic?” Shank demands, but Obi-Wan can hear a sudden clatter of movement and then running footsteps. “What kind of idiot—”

“Generals Skywalker, Billaba, and Windu,” Rex says pointedly.

“Three Jedi together? No wonder you need me,” Shank retorts, and closes the channel.

Obi-Wan winces faintly. Clearly Shank hasn’t entirely forgiven him for the last incident. “Well,” he murmurs. “At least they’ll be well-sedated, should they attempt to resist.”

With a quiet snicker, Rex picks up his pace, getting to the door controls first. He opens them just as Obi-Wan reaches them, and Obi-Wan steps in to see a familiar ship approaching. It looks entirely undamaged except for a few scorch marks, and it comes in for a landing easily, engines humming. Obi-Wan would almost rather it limped in, honestly. This lack of damage puts all the hairs on the back of his neck up.

But Anakin is onboard. Obi-Wan can feel it, as clear as anything.

So is Ahsoka, for that matter, which is rather less than amusing.

The ramp descends with a hiss of gears, and instantly Obi-Wan is moving, one hand near his lightsaber but his eyes fixed on the interior of the ship. There's a miasma of darkness, like a fog of chilling dread, but it’s fading. There's light within it, familiar presences, and Obi-Wan makes it three steps up before a figure appears at the top.

“Obi-Wan,” Depa says cheerfully, though her smirk is all slyness as she leans on Caleb's shoulder. “Did you miss me?”

“Not in the least, but I hear Commander Grey has been frantic,” Obi-Wan retorts, hurrying up to steady her from the other side. Several of the clones manning the hangar are already approaching, and one of them takes over, pulling her arm over his shoulders.

Depa sighs dramatically. “You always did know just where to land a blow,” she says ruefully, and runs her fingers through her padawan’s hair. “Caleb, would you go and find Grey for me? He’ll want to know we’re safe.”

Caleb pulls a face, but he slips out from under her other arm. “He’s going to yell at me,” he says.

“Tell him to save it for me,” Depa offers, which makes Caleb roll his eyes, but he hurries out of the hangar.

“You're all right?” Obi-Wan asks, as the trooper helps Depa limp past him.

She chuckles, waving him off. “Go see to your padawan,” she tells him. “I’ll be fine.”

 _Fine_ seems to be something of an exaggeration, but Obi-Wan allows it. Mostly because Shank is approaching at a run, carrying his medkit, and that’s enough to be certain that Depa will receive all the care she needs. Satisfied, Obi-Wan turns back to the ship and heads up the ramp, just in time to catch the elbow of a clone trooper in the Coruscant Guard’s red-and-white armor as he trips and stumbles.

“Easy, Commander,” he murmurs, helping Thire back to his feet. “You're almost back to solid ground.”

“Thanks, sir,” Thire says, and his voice sounds raw and wrecked, like he’s been screaming. Rys, on his other side, is dry-eyed but deathly pale, but he nods to Obi-Wan as they shuffle past. There’s another set of Guard troopers behind them, Jek and one Obi-Wan can't place, but they don’t do more than nod briefly before as they follow.

Obi-Wan has no earthly idea what a whole squad of the Guard was doing wherever Anakin and Mace ended up, but there's no chance to ask. He gives them another glance, then turns and—

It’s like running face-first into a beacon of pure light, or crashing headlong into Ilum unprepared. The impact almost rocks Obi-Wan back on his heels, and he takes a sharp step out of the path of the small woman coming down. She looks nervous, and she’s carrying a red lantern that’s burning with a gold flame, but when she smiles at Obi-Wan it’s a quick, warm expression that curls through Obi-Wan’s bones.

“Hello,” she says politely.

Obi-Wan has heard more than enough descriptions of her over the years, even though Anakin spoke of her rarely. They were vivid descriptions, to be sure—and, more than that, he’s only ever felt one other being who rivaled her and Anakin in the Force.

“Lady Skywalker,” he says politely, and bows. “I'm Obi-Wan Kenobi. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. Especially given that I was under the impression you were dead.”

Shmi Skywalker smiles at him, a little wry, a little rueful. “I was,” she allows. “You're Qui-Gon’s apprentice? The one who trained Ani?”

Obi-Wan is still rather stuck on _I was_ , but he manages a nod. “I believe,” he says, “that he trained me just as much.”

Shmi laughs, startled, and this time her smile is all warmth. “He does tend to do that,” she says, and turns. “Ani,” she says. “You didn’t tell me your teacher was so handsome.”

Obi-Wan looks up, and is just in time to see a wash of horror cross his apprentice’s face. “ _Mom_ ,” he says, so deeply offended that Obi-Wan can barely hide his chuckle. Behind his shoulder, Rex snorts, and he steps up beside Obi-Wan, eyes on the man leaning heavily on Anakin's shoulder.

“Fox,” he says, startled. “Looking rough, vod.”

Fox grimaces, and he really does look like he got dragged backwards under a battalion of battle droids. “I killed a Sith Lord, give me a break,” he says.

Obi-Wan misses his next step. “ _What_ ,” he demands, as politely as he possibly can, and turns his glare right on the likely culprit of this misadventure. “ _Anakin_?”

“Why are you looking like that at _me_?” Anakin protests. “We defeated the Sith Lord, he exploded, now the Senate needs to pick a new Chancellor—”

“ _The Senate needs to **what**_?”

“Sir,” Kix says, aggrieved. “Fox shouldn’t be standing, I was going to get a stretcher for him.”

Even through the blank shock ricocheting through his brain, Obi-Wan can hear Rex's sound of pure relief. “Kix,” he says. “Is—”

Kix smiles and tilts his head. “Back with General Windu,” he says. “He’s fine.”

Fives, Obi-Wan thinks, forcing himself to close his eyes and take a deep breath. The near-shiny Rex was worried about. He’s still alive, and that’s a relief, a good thing to focus on. He can just—sort through all of this in a minute.

“Fox didn’t want a stretcher,” Anakin says to his medic. “I can take him, it’s fine. He heals faster what I touch him, right?”

Brows rising, Obi-Wan opens his eyes to find Rex wearing the same look. They exchange glances, then turn to Anakin for explanation.

Fox flushes, very deliberately not making eye contact, and says, “I can make it to the medbay before my next dramatic collapse, don’t worry.”

“Why would that make me _not worry_?” Kix asks, horrified.

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan says, pointed. “ _Sith Lord_?”

Anakin grimaces, looking from Kix to Obi-Wan to Fox. “It’s a long story?” he tries.

“Then you’d better start at the beginning,” Obi-Wan says, crossing his arms over his chest.

Anakin groans, but glances at Fox and says, “All right, all right. Let me just get us off the ramp first.”

“Acceptable,” Obi-Wan allows, and follows them down, leaving Rex to head deeper into the ship.

The quiet when Cody comes around is a relief compared to the organized chaos of the last time he woke. He can hear the sounds of the hangar beyond, the murmur of voices, the beat of footsteps, but they're elsewhere. In this room, everything is quiet, and his head appreciates that.

Opening his eyes, he stares at the ceiling for a moment, then breathes out, rolling up on one elbow on the narrow bunk. The light is turned low, and he can make out the shape on the other bunk, the figure bent over beside it.

“He’ll be okay, kid,” he says quietly.

Fives startles, looking up, and his expression pulls into something rueful. “Yeah,” he says, “I know. It’s just…”

Carefully, Cody swings his legs over the side of the bed, sitting up. He feels…fine. Surprisingly fine, given everything. His head feels like the aftermath of a migraine, cottony and hollow, but he’s in one piece, without even the bruising on his throat that he expected. The warblade is still at his hip, and when he touches a hand to the hilt, it’s warm and humming against his skin.

“He’s your Master,” he says, and it’s still a weird thing to think, but—easier to take, now, in the wake of everything. Fox moved a lightsaber without touching it, and Fives is Force-sensitive, and Supreme Chancellor Palpatine was the Sith Lord running this war.

Fives grimaces, but when he looks back at Mace, still and silent in the bunk, he smiles a little. “Yeah,” he says. “I guess he’s going to be. If he can deal with you trying to kill him, I'm sure he can deal with the rest of the Jedi Council, too.”

Cody doesn’t flinch, but it’s a near thing. The feeling of Mace's throat beneath his hands is all too vivid, and so is the look on his face when the warblade stabbed him. Pain, _agony_ , and Cody was the one who did that to him.

Palpatine’s mind control didn’t even have the decency to wipe him clean. It was still _him_ , and now he’s never going to able to erase those images.

“Yeah,” he says, maybe a little rough. “I'm sure he will. You're okay with that?”

Fives curls his hands together in his lap. “Yeah,” he says. “I—Echo’s going to be mad, probably, but. I want to be a Jedi, if they’ll let me. There are—there are hundreds of thousands of ARC troopers. And Echo can still make ARC, and I’ll be the first to congratulate him for it. But I can be a _Jedi_.”

Cody snorts, and rises to his feet. Takes two steps across the small room, gripping Fives's shoulder tightly, and says, “You’ve got a decent head on your shoulders. I'm sure you’ll make a good one.”

Fives's grin is bright. “Thanks, Commander,” he says. “And I'm sure you’ll make a good trophy husband—”

“ _Get_ ,” Cody says firmly. “I'm going to wake my husband up, and unless you want to watch—”

“I'm going, I'm _going_.” Fives slips off the edge of the bunk, dodges around Cody, and throws the door shut behind himself. A moment later, Cody catches the sound of voices outside, Ahsoka and Ponds and then Rex, but he ignores them, unbuckling the warblade and setting it aside, then taking Fives's place.

In the hush, he feels like he can finally exhale, and he closes his eyes, reaches out. Frames Mace's still features with a hand, then leans in, resting their foreheads together. There's an ache in his chest, a tremble like relief in his hands, and Mace is still breathing, still alive.

Cody didn’t kill him.

Across the bond, there's a stirring, a shift. Cody can feel him surfacing from the drugged unconsciousness, fighting his way upward, and just—reaches. Gives Mace a handhold, and feels him take it, pulling himself up to the waking world. Mace's eyes sliding open is almost an afterthought, but Cody still smiles down at him, not moving, and says softly, “Hey.”

“Hello yourself,” Mace murmurs, and shifts. There's a brief spike of pain, but before Cody can say anything, Mace's hand is on his shoulder, sliding around to cup the back of his neck. Cody breathes out relief and regret, tips his head and kisses Mace, long and slow and careful. Each slant of his mouth is a reminder of what he didn’t lose, and a promise that he won't hurt Mace again.

“I'm sorry,” he whispers.

The warmth and steadiness of Mace's attention never wavers. “You were controlled,” he says. “I would never blame you.”

“Or fight back,” Cody mutters, still maybe a little bitter about that. It makes Mace huff softly, and he gingerly shifts over, a sharp breath escaping him. Cody winces, reaches to stop him, but Mace catches his hand, slides their fingers together.

“Lie down with me,” he says, and there's nothing at all that Cody could possibly do to resist. He lets himself be pulled down, and the bunk is tiny, hardly meant for one man, let alone two of their size, but Cody lies on his side, curls himself up against Mace's back and wraps his arms around him, and—

It’s better. Cody can feel his heartbeat, the pace of his breathing. He buries his face in the curve of Mace's neck, thinking of their first night sharing a bed, the way they slept together in the Sith temple in the jungle. So much has happened since then, and so much has been done, and so much has _changed_. Cody can hardly keep up with all of it, but at the same time, he doesn’t know what he would change, either.

Mace presses a hand over Cody's where it rests on his chest, and Cody immediately slots their fingers together, feels the press of the rings. Breathes out, then kisses the line of Mace's shoulder, and says, “I think we’ve really earned our honeymoon at this point.”

With a quiet snort, Mace tips his head, and Cody rests his forehead against the curve of Mace's skull, feeling the faint stubble of hair starting to grow in. “I think you mentioned sleeping for a week,” he says dryly, “and a mountaintop somewhere.”

“Yeah,” Cody says softly, and there's no way it will be that easy, but— “No matter what else happens while we’re married, I think it’s safe to say we’ve gotten the hardest part out of the way now.”

“Please,” Mace says, faintly pained. He grips Cody's hand, then sighs, and says, “You came back to yourself, Cody. _By_ yourself. Don’t doubt that.”

The bond, Cody thinks ruefully. That's how he knows what's weighing on Cody. He has Mace in his head now, feeling what he does, and it’s not even alarming. After Dromund Kaas, after everything, there are some things he isn't sure he could put into words.

But Mace knows, regardless.

There are bruises on Mace's throat, and they're not the size and shape of Cody's hands, but they could have been. If he’d had one ounce less control, if he hadn’t cared about Mace as much as he does, they could have been his marks, and Cody _hates_ that. But—

But.

He tightens his arms around Mace, feels him shift, lets go. But Mace doesn’t sit up, just rolls over, and he tugs Cody back. Willingly, full of relief, Cody moves with him, settles with his back against Mace's chest and lets Mace curl around him as much as the narrow bed will allow. And that’s a relief, too, the feeling of being surrounded, of being held. Cody closes his eyes, grips Mace's hand, and has to swallow.

“As soon as the Senate doesn’t _actively_ need us,” he says roughly, “I'm finding that mountaintop, and I'm bringing you with me.”

“I look forward to it,” Mace answers, and Cody can hear the smile in his voice.

The weight of the band around his finger is a grounding one, reassuring. Cody curls their fingers together, presses the rings until the braided bands mesh, and breathes out.

 _Through the darkness_ , he thinks, and feels the low, languid warmth of Mace's amusement, the steady weight of his agreement.

_Through the darkness, and back into the light._


	45. Chapter 45

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Over 200k later, and it's actually done! I still can't believe I'm actually in this fandom, but apparently that's a thing that did indeed happen. 
> 
> So very, very many thanks to Sol, who answered all my stupid questions, let me bounce ideas off them at truly unreasonable hours, and had so much enthusiasm for this fic that it kept me writing even in my most melodramatic moments. It is 110% their fault that it got to this point, and I am deeply grateful.

Even after Geonosis there weren’t this many debriefs, Anakin thinks, dragging himself back into his quarters. He feels fuzzy, strained, but—

The Council has the story, and the Senate’s Security Committee has more details than they’ll ever be able to use, and Lightning Squadron’s video of Palpatine tossing lightning around combined with his strategic disappearance during an apparent long weekend is enough to start pulling at threads and untangling knots. Anakin isn't dumb enough to think this will be the end of it, but it’s a pretty good start, all things considered.

When he slips into the room, there's a figure on the bed, sprawled out and sleeping, and that’s a good start too.

Not quite able to help himself, Anakin sinks down on the mattress, stroking Fox’s hair. It’s been almost two days since they made it off Dromund Kaas, most of it spent in meetings, but Anakin's had enough time to spare that he could visit Fox in the medbay. Could see, too, that it wasn’t doing him any favors, and—

Well. Fox says his touch helps, and like this, he can have peace and quiet and somewhere to recover, and Anakin doesn’t have to worry about him quite as much.

With a quiet sound, Fox curls into him, one hand settling over his knee, and Anakin breathes out. He pulls himself the rest of the way onto the bed, settling back against the wall, and tugs Fox up, letting Fox’s head settle in his lap, and just…stays, for a moment.

Cody and Mace have been close in something like the same way. Always near each other, always looking at each other, and Mace is as unreadable as always, but Anakin can read Cody's face when they’ve been stuck apart for too long. It’s not just the fact that they’re both still hurt and dealing with it. They don’t _like_ being apart.

Anakin isn't sure whether this is the same thing, but it sure as hell feels like it.

Soft, low, his comm chimes, and Anakin checks it, then grins. Lifting a hand, he catches the projector, floats it across the room and lets it hover in front of him, and then accepts the call.

“Hey, Padmé,” he says warmly, and it’s not the first time they’ve commed since he got back to the _Endurance_ , but like both of the times before, something in his chest seems to settle when he sees his wife.

“Ani,” Padmé says, all relief, and she’s beautiful, wearing one of her sleeping dresses and sitting on the edge of her bed, hair a tangle of curls like a waterfall down her back. She reaches out, and Anakin reaches back, just the tips of their fingers touching. His heart feels too big for his chest, desperate and hot, and he wants to be there, wants to hold her and kiss her and wrap her in his arms, but this will have to be enough for now. It’s still three days to Coruscant, and there's no saying how much time they’ll get once they _are_ on the same planet. The war is wrapping up, falling to pieces with Grievous and Palpatine dead and Dooku captured and spilling secrets, but there are still knots of fighting that likely won't die down for a while.

“How are things there?” Anakin asks, a little rough in his throat. “You had a full assembly today, right?”

Padmé’s smile is tired. “There was a vote to elect a new Chancellor,” she says. “It broke down halfway through, but we spent all day trying to gather votes, and I think we can manage it. Bail seems like our best candidate, after…everything.” Her eyes sweep over Anakin, the relief clear on her face, and when her gaze lands on Fox, she smiles a little. “He’s all right?” she asks softly.

“I think so,” Anakin says, and swallows, brushing a hand through Fox’s hair again. He’s going grey at the temples, early even for a clone with accelerated aging, and Anakin is sure that most of that is his body’s reaction to the stress of Palpatine in his head so often. The other Guards had to deal with it, too, but—Fox bore the brunt, just by virtue of being their commander.

It makes Anakin's stomach turn, thinking about it. Thinking about the chips Master Luminara told them about, and Order 66 and what it was meant for, and all the things Palpatine did while he was pretending to be Anakin's kindly old mentor.

“The Sith Lord is gone,” he says, and the words crack in his mouth. “The war’s going to be _over_ , Padmé.”

“It is,” Padmé murmurs, and her smile is all relief, all brightness. “We survived it, Ani.”

Anakin hesitates over what to say next, but—well. He promised. “That trip to Naboo,” he says. “You still want to go?”

“Yes,” Padmé says, and then pauses. “It will have to be…after the new chancellor is elected, and things have calmed down. I can't get away before that, Ani, as much as I’d love to—”

“I know,” Anakin says quickly, and it’s a little jarring, to realize that Padmé thinks he’s going to insist. That he’s going to try to drag her away when the fallout of all of Palpatine’s maneuvering is still hitting the Senate. The Jedi's part in this war is almost over, but—the political part is just starting. Anakin can recognize that.

Well. Recognize it _now_. There's a sinking certainty in his chest that he wouldn’t have a week ago, to make Padmé sound like that.

“I know,” he repeats, more quietly. “Master Yoda wants all of us to visit the Mind Healers for at least two weeks, anyway. But…I invited Fox. Back when we were on Dromund Kaas. I think he needs it.”

“After killing a Sith, I think he deserves it, too.” Padmé glances down at Fox again, expression something Anakin can't read, but she smiles a little. “You really like him, don’t you, Ani?”

Anakin gives her a tired grin. “He saved my life more than enough times for me to think he’s the best thing ever,” he says, and it’s only partially a joke. Pausing, he looks down at Fox, and can't help but touch one of the scars that Merili left on his face. The sight of it still makes his stomach turn, but—they survived. And the outcome was definitely a win for Fox, regardless of everything else. “He likes listening to you and Bail,” he says. “When you're mocking everyone else for having bad taste. When things were bad—remembering that made him smile.”

Padmé’s expression softens. “We don’t mock _everyone_ ,” she protests, but she’s smiling too. “Just people with enough credits to know better. But I'm glad we could give him that memory.” She looks at Fox for another moment, then at Anakin, and says, “If he wants to come to Naboo with us, I’d love that. It would be nice to get to know him without the armor in the way.”

Fox probably isn't going to be wearing armor for a while. Between the visits to the Mind Healers he’ll need to start repairing the mental damage and this…bond Anakin made, he’s going to be spending a lot of time at the temple in the near future. He seems resigned to it, but—it’s going to be a change for everyone.

“My mom’s going to stay in the temple, for now,” he says, rough, and has to clear his throat. “She’s strong in the Force, and some of the scholars want to talk to her about the Sith ritual and how she came back. She said she was going to try and visit Lars and Owen, but—I don’t think she wants to go back to Tatooine.”

Not that Anakin blames her for that. She was a slave there, married the man who freed her, and—maybe she loved him, but Anakin saw too many things like that growing up for it to leave a good taste in his mouth. He’d much rather have her safe in the Coruscant temple, regardless.

“I can't wait to meet her,” Padmé says gently. She pulls her legs up under herself, drawing her robe around her shoulders, and Anakin kind of can't breathe past the knowledge of how much he loves her, how beautiful and kind and fierce she is. “I’ll make arrangements for the trip, and for Fox to come. We can go back to the lake house.”

Anakin hesitates. It’s where they married, where they found each other when it felt like the world was falling apart, but—

“I don’t,” he starts, and closes his mouth. Thinks of Mace and Cody, and they way they looked stumbling out of the ship, leaning on each other and so clearly, obviously in love that it was hard for Anakin to look at them straight on. Swallows hard, and says quietly, “Padmé. I don’t want to have to keep it a secret. Us. _Us_ a secret.”

Padmé studies him for a long moment before her face breaks into a smile. “Jedi are encouraged to love?” she teases gently.

Anakin huffs at her. “They _are_ ,” he says. “And. As long as we don’t just tell everyone we’re married, us being— _us_ should be fine. Besides. If Fox is there, too…”

Padmé laughs a little, leaning forward, and her smile is warm and determined. “I can make it public,” she says. “You're a war hero now, and people love you. No one will mind.”

Padmé’s made a name for herself, too, in the Senate. And if she’s trying to get Bail elected, if she can manage it and becomes the new Supreme Chancellor’s confidant, that will be even more influence. They're not stupid kids trying to hide the way they feel anymore. They don’t _have_ to, and it settles something in Anakin's chest.

“I’ll leave Ahsoka with Obi-Wan, then,” he says, and grins at her. “She’ll probably be happy not to have to deal with both of us.”

“All three of us,” Padmé corrects, glancing at Fox again. Her expression slips into something thoughtful, and she lifts her head, watching Anakin for a moment. “I'm glad you found him, Ani,” she says. “You seem…better.”

Anakin gives her a rueful smile. “Obi-Wan thinks it’s the bond,” he says. “There were lots of jabs about emotional maturity rubbing off on me and steadier heads prevailing. Like he hasn’t been sulking over the fact that he didn’t get to crash-land on that stupid planet with us since we got back.”

Padmé laughs, wrapping her arms around her knees as she leans forward. “Obi-Wan only _thinks_ he has a steadier head, from all the adventures you’ve told me about,” she says, amused. Glances sideways, hesitating, and then says, “I should sleep. There's another vote tomorrow.”

“Do you think Bail will win?” Anakin asks, and—it would be good if he did. Anakin doesn’t know him well, but Padmé only has good things to say about him, and Anakin knows he helped her investigate a murdered senator that one time. That says good things about him, at least.

“I do,” Padmé says, fierce faith as she smiles. “Not just because he’s a good speaker, but—everyone’s overcompensating, trying to distance themselves from Palpatine as much as possible. Bail opposed him enough times that he’s the clear choice if they're looking for Palpatine’s opposite.”

Anakin lets out a rueful breath. “Well, I'm not about to argue.” Pausing, he just…looks at Padmé for a moment, and has to swallow.

“I love you,” he says, and it’s all he _can_ say. “So much.”

“I love you too, Ani.” Padmé reaches out like she’s going to touch, then pulls back. “I’ll see you when you arrive.”

“Dream about me until I do,” Anakin says, and Padmé laughs and closes the connection. Anakin grins, warm, more settled than he has been in days, and lets the holoprojector drift back to the desk. He can't wait to see Padmé, and just as much he can't wait to get her away from Coruscant, somewhere peaceful. Somewhere that they can both relax, and be together, and not have to worry about wars or politics or anyone else.

Fox could use that too, Anakin thinks, and brushes the silver at Fox’s temple, lays a hand over his forehead. Beneath his touch, Fox stirs faintly, some of the lines in his face easing, and after a long moment his eyes slide open.

“Just sleep, Fox,” Anakin says quietly. “You still need it.”

“You too,” Fox says roughly, shifting up slightly. He slumps down on the bed, watching Anakin with dark eyes, and says, “I can move.”

Anakin snorts. “I've shared a tent with all of Torrent Company,” he says dryly. “Sharing a bed with you when the rest of the ship is full isn't exactly a hardship. You snore less than Rex, anyway.”

The slant of Fox’s smile is crooked. “Everything all right with the debrief?” he asks, but he doesn’t get up, just shifts over, and Anakin peels off his boots and his robes and slides under the blankets in his breeches.

“So far,” Anakin says, and thumps back against the pillow, closing his eyes. Sharing with Fox isn't like sharing with Torrent; he’s quieter, for one, and he kicks less. He’s warm, too, and when he settles in the heat of his body is a balm against the cold of space that Anakin has never really adjusted to. Glancing over, Anakin watches Fox’s eyes close again, his breathing even out, and smiles.

Fox settles against his side, already almost asleep again, and Anakin wraps an arm around him. Thinks of Padmé, and Naboo, and time to adjust and be all right, and Fox with them. Breathes out, slow and steady, and closes his eyes as well.

It’s going to be okay.

“I'm pretty sure the fallout isn't supposed to be more exhausting than defeating the Sith Lord in the first place,” Cody says dryly, dropping his kit by the door and taking a step into Mace's quarters in the temple. It’s kind of jarring to think that not even a month ago, Mace and Plo were first pitching their ridiculous plan to him here. And now—

Well. A hell of a lot has changed.

“Yes, well, call it comeuppance,” Obi-Wan says breezily, following him in. He has all of Mace’s many datapads balanced in one arm, a vase of obnoxiously bright flowers with _get well soon!!_ written on the glass in a bubbly script in the other. “If you try to plan a secret honeymoon, the universe conspires against you.”

Cody eyes him warily, having seen his general and Rex plotting in corners too often the past few days to take that kind of comment innocently. They're planning something, and every soldier’s instinct he has says it’s going to be something ridiculous in the name of revenge.

“In our defense, we weren’t actually planning any sort of honeymoon,” Mace says, waving the door shut. One arm is still in a sling, the warblade’s wound not healing nearly as fast as it should, and Cody feels unhappiness at the thought prickle down his spine.

Mace looks at him, patient, and raises a brow, and Cody pulls a face at him in response. He’ll get used to it. Eventually.

“Perhaps that was the problem,” Obi-Wan says, raising a brow at them, and Cody snorts.

“It was the middle of a war,” he points out, and takes the bag Mace is carrying, setting it down beside his own and then pulling the cloak from his shoulders. Mace allows it without protest, expression amused, and—

Weird to think that at the start of this Cody couldn’t even read that much on his face.

“The end, though I’ll admit we didn’t know it at the time,” Obi-Wan says, and stacks the pads neatly on the table before he straightens. “Shaak will be introducing her new padawan to the council tomorrow, but beyond that, I believe you have a full day to yourselves while Senator Organa’s appointment is ratified.”

Cody eyes him sidelong, wondering what he and Rex are planning, and if that’s when it’s going to come due. When he glances over at Mace, Mace is wearing the same expression, suspicious and resigned, and it’s enough to make Cody snort. Mace looks back, brow rising faintly, and Cody offers him a shadow of a smirk. It’s enough to bring a faint smile to Mace's face, and he steps around Obi-Wan to reach for Cody. Instantly, Cody reaches back, pulling him in as he takes a step forward, and—

These are their rooms now, and this whole thing _worked_. The holonet is in convulsions over the love story between a clone and a Jedi that some enterprising soul in the know leaked to them, and the clones are free, with hasty adjustments being made for their inclusion in matters as citizens. There’s still mop-up to do, and Separatist generals to deal with, but without Dooku at the reins, it’s already devolving into infighting and squabbling, and Cody expects that at least a few of them are going to take each other out before the GAR can. Not that he’s complaining.

“A day to ourselves sounds perfect,” Mace says, and Cody snorts.

“No zombies, no leviathans, no vornskrs, and definitely no Sith Lords,” he says dryly. “I'm desperate enough to count that as a vacation all on its own.”

“A tragic level of desperation,” Mace observes, and Cody hooks a hand in the collar of his robe, then tugs him down, and Mace comes willingly. He takes the light kiss with a sound of appreciation that warms Cody's bones, and—

“You know,” Obi-Wan says in a thoughtful tone. “When I first heard the news, I thought it was fake.”

Cody's had enough practice keeping a thousand-yard stare in place that his expression doesn’t even twitch. Mace just raises a brow at Obi-Wan, like that’s the most absurd thing he’s ever heard, and says, “Did you?”

It’s not a question, but Obi-Wan still snorts softly, folding his arms over his chest. “Yes. You're just lucky you didn’t serve closely together before now, or you wouldn’t have fooled anyone.”

“Fortunate indeed,” Mace says, and gives Obi-Wan a pointed look. “I believe you have plans of revenge to get back to, Master Kenobi.”

“Revenge is not the Jedi way,” Obi-Wan says piously, but his beard isn't anywhere near shaggy enough to hide his smirk. “However, I do have a lunch date with Rex that I can't miss. Excuse me.”

Because getting married hasn’t done anything to make Cody less of an asshole, he waits until Obi-Wan is one step from the doorway to say, “Better make it a real date before you break his heart, General. I've suffered through your pining more than long enough.”

Obi-Wan splutters, trips, and almost walks into the wall.

As the door slides shut on his sounds of protest, Mace chuckles, and Cody hooks an arm around his waist, letting Mace lean on him as they make their way across the room. Mace doesn’t technically _need_ the support, but—

Cody's allowed to touch now, and he _wants_ to.

“Going to introduce Fives to the council when Shaak brings Tup in?” Cody asks, sinking down onto the couch. A large application of bacta took care of most of his bruises, but he’s still vaguely sore, and the soft support feels good. So does the quiet, honestly, after five days of debriefing and intense questioning by the Security Council. There are more ships being dispatched to Dromund Kaas, and more Jedi, but not the 212th or the 91st, and Cody can be content with that.

“She did already lay the groundwork for my arguments,” Mace says, pleased about it, and lets out a breath, sinking down as well.

Like a magnet seeking the pole, Cody can't help but turn to him, and there’s a knot in his throat, a question on his tongue that’s been there since they woke up on the ship after everything was over.

“Mace,” he says, and stops. Takes a breath, because Mace is watching him, patient and steady, and—

What’s one question compared to surviving multiple days on a hostile Sith planet, really?

Mace leans in while Cody is still fighting for words, and the slant of his mouth over Cody's bleeds the tension from Cody's spine, sinks heat into his veins. He wraps an arm around Mace's waist, pulls him just a little closer, and feels the truly gratifying hitch of breath that follows.

“Yes?” Mace murmurs, the curl of his mouth something sly, and Cody rolls his eyes and kisses him in return, a little more forceful. Drags him in shifts, and it’s a careful fall but he still spills Mace back onto the cushions, leaning over him.

“Stop that,” he says, and doesn’t mean a word of it. “I'm trying to be serious.”

Mace raises a brow at him, still perfectly composed like Cody isn't kneeling on top of him, knee between his thighs, one hand gripping the curve of his hip. “You're doing very well so far,” he says politely, and Cody groans, dropping his head down to rest in the center of Mace's chest. He can feel Mace's nearly-silent chuckle, and a moment later Mace cups the nape of his neck, brushes his fingers through his hair.

“You were saying?” Mace asks, not quite repentant.

Cody sighs at him, but lifts his head, and—

Compared to facing down a Sith Lord, it’s not as if this is hard. But it still takes him a moment to find the words, the phrasing. To find the courage, because this started as a sham, and he hadn’t ever thought it would be more than that.

It is, though. Barely a week into this marriage, and Cody is absolutely sure he wouldn’t break it for anything, even if he could.

“I think I know a way to keep Rex and General Kenobi from torturing us with whatever they're planning,” he says.

“Oh?” Mace raises a brow at him, fingers trailing down Cody's spine in a slow, gentle stroke. It makes Cody's breath catch, and he can feel the echo of Mace's own reaction through the bond.

Dragging his thoughts back into order is more difficult than Cody would have thought.

“Yeah,” he says, a little rough, and catches Mace's hand, pulling it up. He doesn’t let himself hesitate, but deliberately lifts it to his mouth, presses a kiss to the ring there, and then laces their fingers. Pins Mace's hand to the cushion beside his head, watching dark eyes darken further, and says, “Another wedding. With people, this time. And—Mandalorian vows. Since we used yours the first time.”

Mace stills, and his fingers tighten faintly around Cody's hand. “You're sure?” he asks quietly, and Cody can feel the echo of it in the bond, the hesitation, the awareness of what, exactly, such a thing would mean to Cody. But—

After Dromund Kaas, Cody understands a little better just how deeply Mace meant the vows they took on the _Endurance_ , and this seems like the next step.

“Very,” he says, and it’s so much an understatement it’s almost laughable, but he holds Mace's gaze, lets him see exactly how certain he is.

He wants this. Forever. And maybe the bond plays into that, but Cody can see inside Mace's head, into his heart. He can feel everything, all the shadows and all the light, and it only makes him more sure.

Mace must see that, must feel that, because he breathes out warm amusement, and Cody can feel the curl of his relief and pleasure and something else. Something brighter, softer, warmer.

He kisses Cody, slow and soft, and it feels like everything the kiss at the wedding was going to become.

“I would be honored,” Mace says quietly, and Cody grins. Kisses him again, harder, gets his hands on his sides and holds him close, and it feels like there's a wildfire in his chest, a lightning storm.

He pulls back, slants another kiss across Mace's mouth, and grins at him. “Remember what I told you, the first time you dragged me in here?”

“I believe Wolffe did the dragging,” Mace says, and the rasp to his voice is immensely gratifying, makes Cody pause to kiss him again. It’s heat and intent and coiling tension that’s so sweet Cody could drown in it, and he slides his hands under Mace's tunics, splays his hands over hot skin. But he’s making a point, and he drags his mouth away from Mace's, closes his eyes for a moment, and takes a breath.

“Either way,” he says. “Remember?”

“I'm not about to _forget_ ,” Mace says, dry.

“Yeah,” Cody says, and grins at him. “I said it sounded like you're dragging me into a plot to overthrow the chancellor. And you told me—”

Mace's laughter is more felt than seen, but he digs his fingers into Cody's shoulder, and Cody feels the echoes of amusement that flicker across the surface of his mind. “I told you we’d have to schedule it in later,” he finishes, and Cody laughs a little, resting their foreheads together. Mace strokes his fingers through his hair, and—

It’s good. Warm, bright, full of silent laughter, and Cody feels like he could stay in this precise moment forever and not mind at all.

“We seem to have managed to fit it in,” Mace says after a moment, and Cody snickers and curls over him, careful to keep his weight off Mace's shoulder but covering him completely. Trapping him between his arms, elbows braced on either side of his head, and just—

Kisses him again. He doesn’t ever want to stop.

“I think that means our schedule just opened up,” he says, still helplessly amused.

“I feel confident that we’ll figure out something to do with our time,” Mace says, raising a brow at him, and Cody laughs and then makes sure he’s too preoccupied to say anything else at all.

They have another wedding to plan, but he can remind Mace of that later. Much, much later.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [asking for divine strength to meet the demands of my profession](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23088817) by [dastardlyenables](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dastardlyenables/pseuds/dastardlyenables)
  * [wonders in a hunt](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23762770) by [BlueSapphire718](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueSapphire718/pseuds/BlueSapphire718)
  * [the midsummer full moon](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29308560) by [facingthenorthwind (spacegandalf)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacegandalf/pseuds/facingthenorthwind)




End file.
